Tag: anonymous

The photo attached to the post was only a torso shot; it was difficult to determine the dude’s age. But the pic showed a lean, boyish chest with broad smooth pecs. Large dark nipples weren’t the only thing to stand; a large tattoo was inked across the left pectoral—the anarchy symbol, a letter A made of three crossed lines, with a circle around them.

There was a faint haze of brownish fuzz across the guy’s flat belly; there was nothing else distinguishing about the pic—but it was enough for Joe.

He’d been off work, but it had rained all day. Now, long after the sun had set, he sat listening to the pattering of raindrops against the window. He was bored and horny, and that meant one thing.

Some lucky faggot was gonna spend the last few minutes of his life with Joe’s huge cock buried in his ass.

He’d trolled through the app he’d downloaded to an earlier victim’s phone. Nothing stood out, so he’d held off until later in the evening. The really sick homos, the ones who most deserved to be put down like dogs, tended to crawl out from under their rocks under the cover of darkness.

And he’d been right. This fucker right here was just beggin’ to get whacked.

He sent a reply—a dick pic, full erect. “U bitch enough to take me all the way?”

The response was quick and detailed. An address, and the info the door was unlocked. The pansy wanted Joe to come right in, head for the bedroom where the queer would be on the bed on his hands and knees. He wanted Joe to walk in and stick his dick right up his ass. No foreplay, no talk—just plug his hole and start banging him.

Joe could do that. He let the dude know.

“Cool can you make it quick—got more dudes cummin later gonna be a serious cum dumpster—Cliff ”

Joe smirked as he padded off to put some clothes on, his hard, muscled body moving like a panther’s in the dark. No, it wasn’t gonna be quick. No matter how much Cliff begged, it wasn’t gonna be quick at all.

The hardcore sex killer selected his outfit with care. It was warm and humid outside; the rain was the last of the summer showers, but it hadn’t cooled off quite yet. He pulled a black sleeveless t-shirt over his hairy chest; it displayed his well-developed biceps and furry forearms perfectly. Next, he slipped into his favorite pair of jeans well-worn and skin-tight, cinching them around his narrow waist with a wide belt of black leather. Finally, he sat on the edge of his bed and pulled on a pair of engineer boots, also of black leather, with a buckled strap across the ankle and another at the top of the shaft. It was easier just to pull them on over the legs of his jeans…

Dressed to kill, Joe stood up and headed for the door, his dick already tenting the crotch of his jeans in anticipation. He needed to drain his huge, hairy balls badly, and that meant he needed a cumrag—a human cumrag. Time to head out.

Within fifteen minutes, Joe had arrived at the address given to him, a gated apartment complex in a decent part of town. Cliff had already sent him the gate code; Joe drove into the complex, looking for the right apartment.

It took a while. The rain had stopped-or, rather, the air had become so saturated with water that everything was wrapped in a warm, soggy mist like fog. The apartments were three-story units in long rows down alleyways; the ground floor of each unit was a garage and an entryway.

Finally locating the right unit, Joe parked in front of the garage door. He glanced up and down the alley, but no one was out on a wet night like this. Trying the front door, he found it unlocked as promised and entered the unit.

He found himself in a small entryway with a tiled floor. To his immediate right was a door to the garage; straight ahead were the stairs. The slutboy had informed him that the bedroom was on the third floor, so Joe headed up the steps. Halfway up, they turned and doubled back and Joe found himself in a dimly-lit living/dining area; off to his left was a dark space that was obviously the kitchen. The stairs continued up, and so did Joe.

There were three doorways on the third floor; two of them—presumably leading to a bedroom and a bathroom—gaped blackly at the landing at the top of the stairs. The third one, though, was illuminated by a faint flicker of light. Joe entered the room.

Dark shapes of furniture lined the walls. Joe had to maneuver around what appeared to be a club chair—it was difficult to make out, but there appeared to be clothing draped over the back of the chair. A fragment of color caught briefly in the faint light—a silk tie lay on top. As he passed by, the bulked-out alpha snatched the tie and stuffed it in his pocket; no telling how it might come in handy at some point in the evening. The motion had been too quick and subtle to be seen.

But in any case, the only thing that could be seen clearly was the bed. It was king-sized and had a mirrored headboard with a built-in shelf; the flickering light—the only light in the room—came from three LED candles sitting on this shelf. The bed itself had been stripped down to the fitted sheet, but it wasn’t bare. Crouched on his hands and knees on the bed with his ass in the air, the fag was staring into the mirror, trying to get a better look at the dude who was gonna breed him.

Cliff was twenty-eight but with his lean, lithe body and nearly shoulder-length tousled dirty-blond hair, he looked younger. He worked as an account manager at a bank, where he got by with a button-down look and a quiet demeanor; there was no hint of his wild, sluttish sex life at the office. Once he got home, though, the whore came out to play—and played hard.

The youth was a serious power bottom; he loved to get fucked by anyone anytime—as long as he was off work. “You don’t shit where you eat,” was his motto, and he stuck by it, but his sex drive was so intense, he was usually trolling for tops on his phone as he sat at stoplights on the way home.

The room was dim—he liked a sense of anonymity, of danger—and it was difficult to see, but it looked to Cliff like he’d scored big-time tonight. Yeah, he had other dudes lined up later on, but this hulking muscular stud damn sure looked like he knew how to handle a hot bottom boy. Cliff couldn’t see the guy’s face in the mirror, but he didn’t really care. What he could see of the body was hot as fuck; what he really wanted a look at was the dude’s dick.

He got it soon enough.

Standing at the foot of the bed, Joe grinned at how easy the horny faggot was making it. This pansy wanted a thick tubesteak up his ass bad, and Joe was just the man to give it to him. Unzipping his fly, he reached down into his crotch and slowly extracted his massive cock like a handler pulling a python out of a cage. He heard a faint gasp and realized the homo had caught sight of it. The punk had seen it before, when Joe sent his dick pic, but it had been a close-up without a good sense of scale.

Now Cliff could see the full size of Joe’s shaft, the impressive length and frightening girth obvious as the thick rod of manflesh throbbed and swelled. The dark veins wrapped around it practically writhed as they pulsed with blood. Eager as he was, Cliff had never seen a cock that big and wasn’t sure his asshole could take it. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had plenty of dicks up inside him before, but this…this was something different.

Good thing he had a fresh bottle of poppers.

Joe climbed onto the bed and moved forward until he was up on his knees directly behind Cliff. Pulling up his cock, he let it fall back down onto the homo’s bare backside where it landed with a loud, meaty slap. Cliff moaned and quivered like a bitch in heat and Joe’s grin got wider and more shark-like.

“Ya want that, do ya, cunt?” he jeered, grabbing his dong and steadily slapping it against Cliff’s smooth, rounded asscheeks.

Since Cliff’s face was closer to both the mirrored headboard and the sources of light, Joe could make it out much better than Cliff could his. The long-haired queer’s eyes were large and dark, with long lashes. His nose was long and straight, and around his mouth was a sandy-brown stubble, a goatee just a shade darker than his hair. Joe could also make out the small dark bottle clutched in the cunt’s hand. So the faggot liked his poppers? Good. Joe could make use of that.

He decided to give the slut something to look at. It was warm up on the third floor and Joe was sweating a little. He grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it up over his head, bending back slightly. While still unable to make out Joe’s face, Cliff could make out his incredibly well-developed torso very well, drinking in the details of the dominant stud’s thickly-muscled chest—broad pecs with large dark nipples jutting out, seemingly hard enough to cut glass. Thick, dark, abundant fur spread across the alpha’s abdomen and ran down his ripped abs, disappearing below the waistband of his jeans, demarcated by the wide leather belt.

“Oh fuck it,” Cliff muttered. “Fuckin’ hell, lookit that bod. Put it in me, man. It’s gonna hurt, but I want you in me so fuckin’ bad…” He opened the bottle of poppers and inhaled deeply, holding first to one nostril and then the other.

Joe wasn’t waiting for an invitation. And he wasn’t waiting for lube either; he was going in dry. The little fuck needed to feel it. He pressed the thick, swollen head of his cock against Cliff’s pink puckered sphincter and pressed slightly. Cliff moaned loudly.

Then Joe rammed his shaft home, shoving it all the way in until his pubes were rasping on Cliff’s baby-smooth asscheeks. His enormous shaft speared the pansy’s colon, ripping open the clenched ass muscle and tearing at the tender lining of the rectum. Cliff screeched in pain as the huge rod sank deep in his guts, further than anything had ever penetrated before—

—and could also feel an electric shock run through his own dick as Joe’s cock rode over his prostate like an out-of-control semi. He’d been right, it hurt so bad, it hurt so fuckin’ bad…but he was still getting hard.

“Damn, man, no,” he whined, “Pull out, dude—jeez, I toldja to go slow, lemme get used to it! Goddam, I think ya tore somethin’…” Digging his hands into the mattress, Cliff tried to pull himself off Joe’s dick.

“No ya don’t, bitch,” Joe said calmly, and grabbing Cliff’s right bicep, pulled that arm around behind the boy’s back.

“Wha—?” Cliff asked in bewilderment. “What the fuck ya doin’?”

Joe didn’t both to explain. Fishing the tie out of his pocket, he brought the slut’s left arm around in the same way—expending a little more effort this time since Cliff was disposed to resist—and with the ease of an expert soon had the gay youth’s hands bound securely behind his back.

Cliff’s fear started to override the horrible pain of torn flesh in his anus. There was always the possibility of something going wrong in these blind anonymous hookups—but nothing ever had before. Now, though…this guy was hurting him, and he couldn’t get away.

“Get off me!” he yelled. “I don’t wanna do this anymore!”

Without saying a word, Joe hunched over the cunt’s lithe, smooth body and began pumping his cock fast and hard, plunging all the way into Cliff’s ass. As often as he’d offered his fuckhole up to anyone who’d use it, Cliff had never been fucked all the way up into his guts before. There was something horrible about the searing pain—something that made it feel like he was being badly fucked up on the inside. And yet despite all that, his own cock was so hard it actually hurt…

“Stop!” Cliff cried. “Goddammit, no! This is fucking rape—stop!!”

“Shaddup, faggot,” Joe said evenly, “Ya know ya want it. You like it like this, dontcha, ya worthless cocksucker? This what ya been looking for, huh? A real man to come in and pound the shit outta yer ass? So quit squawkin’ and enjoy the ride, motherfucker, or I’m really gonna make ya hurt.”

Laying his head back down on the mattress, Cliff realized he had no choice. He couldn’t free himself; he was pinned to the bed as if the alpha’s enormous shaft had impaled him on the mattress. “Oh god,” he moaned tearfully, “Oh god, oh god, oh god…” His lean, straining body was wracked with pain with every thrust of Joe’s long, thick rod; his long brown hair darkening as sweat was forced from his smooth skin.

Hearing a clinking sound behind him, the humbled and submissive youth glanced in the mirror. It took him a moment to notice the glint of light winking off to the power top’s side. It was a belt buckle, he realized; the rapist had unbuckled his belt. It had no significance for him.

What did have some significance was that he was still lucid despite the increasingly nightmarish nature of the evening. After all, some part of his bottom pig soul reasoned, all that was really happening was he was getting a good rough fuck, right? And that was what he’d been looking for anyway, right?

But for all the times he’d whored his ass out, he’d never endured so much pain—and even worse, somehow, he’d never been made to feel so trapped and helpless. This dude was not only rough, he was incredibly powerful and Cliff was utterly at his mercy.

And it wasn’t long before he learned Joe had no mercy at which to be.

“Yer gettin’ loose on me, asswipe,” the hulking alpha growled. “Tighten up that fuckhole boy, or I’m gonna tighten it for ya.”

“I—I ca-can’t…” Cliff said, his body and his voice jerking with Joe’s deep, powerful thrusts. He looked pleadingly at the top in the mirror. As he spoke, Cliff could see the alpha’s hands moving at his waist. The dude was slowly and menacingly removing his belt, but the boyslut was too full of cock to care why. “Dude, you-you’re reamin’ me ow-out…”

He drew his right fist back and slammed it down onto Cliff’s kidney with the force of a piledriver; the thick, meaty slap of flesh on flesh sounded like someone hitting a side of beef with a baseball bat. The sudden agony of the kidney punch made Cliff squeal, a loud, high-pitched sound almost identical to that of a pig.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Joe grunted, “Felt that one in my cock. That what ya like, fag? You need to be hurt to get off? Fuck yeah, homo, can do. I’ll put yer worthless ass down so hard you’ll cum for joy, ya disgusting little assfuck.”

Moaning and gasping for air, Cliff wallowed in a small dark cloud of pain. He could hear Joe speak; he could even make out the words, but he was too busy trying to deal with the agony in his ass and his guts and his back to bother to comprehend what was being said to him. He could only writhe in abject fear and pain, which worked Joe’s cock even better—and caused Cliff even more pain in his traumatized rectum.

Glancing up at the mirrored headboard, the dazed youth could see the buff older man’s torso shifting in the dim light as the alpha brutally plowed his hole. The fur on Joe’s chest started to darken and mat with sweat; the room was hot and stuffy and the atmosphere was becoming increasingly more charged with male pheromones with each passing moment. In horror, Cliff could see Joe’s thick, strong arm draw back, bicep swelling with latent power, and he knew he was gonna get hit again.

Joe timed the blow with the thrusting of his cock so that he was balls-deep in the kid’s guts when his fist impacted Cliff’s back like a cannonball, fracturing a rib. The slut grunted in pain and the entire length of his smooth, slim body, slick with sweat, went rigid.

Grinding his hips at an incredibly swift speed, Joe powerfucked the bound, helpless homo as he spoke, reaming the kid mercilessly. “Ya wanna know where yer place is, you dumbass sack a’ shit?” he sneered, “It’s ridin’ my cock down into yer grave and then takin’ a nice long dirt nap. You ain’t no good to me or anyone else once you’ve soaked up my manspunk. Like any other cumrag, yer just gonna end up another piece of garbage.” Another blow, this one totally unheralded, struck Cliff’s other kidney, the sudden organ trauma literally taking the slut’s breath away.

With that, he tossed his belt down onto the bed in front of Cliff. The lean young man, already suffering under the brutal blows to his back and the violent assfuck, stared dully and uncomprehendingly at it. Wrapped tightly in an aching haze, he could only tug his hands feebly at the silk binding and endure the pain.

The gay punk had retreated into a mental fugue state once the assault had begun, hearing the words that were spoken to him and suffering the pain of the beating and the rape, but not allowing anything to sink any deeper into his psyche. His body was responding automatically; the heady funk of testosterone and mansweat in the air would have kept his dick just as hard even if Joe’s gigantic hog wasn’t crushing his prostate under its huge, vein-wrapped girth.

The youth had whored out his twink body on hundreds of occasions; while he’d always known that the danger of running into someone like Joe was out there, he also knew that it was the kinda thing that would always happen to someone else—never him. After all, he just wanted to get fucked. What was wrong with that?

But Cliff’s need for dick had increased. Getting fucked led to getting bred multiple times a night by anonymous strangers—which led to Joe. To the extent that Cliff allowed himself to think, he wondered vaguely how this had happened. He could feel the top’s strong, muscled thighs press against his own with every thrust of the dude’s cock and felt a faint sense of shock that this should have been the best fuck ever—such a fuckin’ stud—and had turned out so bad.

Joe sensed the boy going slack beneath him and knew immediately what was happening. He’d offed enough fuckmeat by now to know that the kid was withdrawing; he was minimizing his psychological damage by submitting to the physical rape without processing any mental input.

Joe didn’t like that. He wanted the kid to suffer mentally as well. He wanted to rape Cliff’s mind as well, to fuck and abuse and destroy the useless fag’s entire being. And he knew exactly how to do it. He started by leaning forward, stretching out and laying full-length on top of his writhing victim, feeling the slim youth’s smooth back writhing under his chest.

Cliff, likewise, could feel Joe on top of him, the wiry, sweat-matted chest hair scraping and scouring the tender skin on his back every time the unlucky punk shuddering in pain. He looked up, quite by accident, and for the first time, got a look at Joe’s face in the mirror—and froze, his blood running ice-cold in terror.

The man fucking him was brutally handsome, his face composed of hard, sharp angles and deep shadows. Some of the latter, the ones that ran across the alpha’s chin and cheeks, were blue and scratchy, shadows of scruff. Dark, slightly curly hair, a long straight nose and full lips curled into a sneer of disgust completed the face of what could have been a portrait of masculinity in the abstract.

But it was the look in the eyes—the beautiful, long-lashed, ice-blue eyes—that instilled such fear in Cliff. It shifted and changed, with rage and lust and disgust chasing each other, but the glint of homicidal glee never faded. Without another word being said, Cliff realized this guy wasn’t just gonna kill him—this guy was gonna get off while killing him.

Then Joe clamped one big strong hand over Cliff’s nose and mouth, completely cutting off his air.

“You’re startin’ to bore me, faggot,” the cruel alpha said quietly, the wiry scruff on his cheek scraping the bound cunt’s ear ash he bent his head down to whisper. “Time for me to blow my load and split. Time for you to die, you homo trash. You need to massage my rod good and hard, and I got an idea.”

Joe had spoken softly and calmly, taking his time as Cliff, squirming and kicking beneath him, slowly suffocated with the top’s powerful hand clutching his face. When he judged the fuckmeat desperate enough, Joe brought up the bottle of poppers which he’d picked up off the bed after binding Cliff hands.

With one hand, Joe unscrewed the top of the small dark bottle. With the other, he released the fag’s left nostril only. As Cliff inhaled deeply and desperately, Joe applied the bottle. The slutty young homo found himself involuntarily taking the largest hit of poppers he’d ever done in his short, wasted life. Joe closed his air off again and held on for sixty seconds as the meat, riding on its rush, bucked and jerked frantically beneath him, Cliff’s smooth back sliding along Joe’s muscled chest and ripped abs on a film of slick boysweat.

Joe suddenly released Cliff’s face, letting the kid exhale. This close to his meat, Joe could smell the chemical fumes on the cunt’s outgoing breath. Before the slut could breathe in again, Joe closed off everything but his right nostril and reapplied the bottle. Lack of oxygen meant that Cliff had no choice but to inhale another lung-busting hit of poppers, deeply and lengthily.

The young homo felt himself losing it; his head spun and there was a loud throbbing in his ears. His cock was so fuckin’ hard and his ass was getting plowed and he wanted it to go on all fuckin’ night—

—and that was when Joe released his head again, picked up the belt, and wrapped it around the fuckmeat’s neck.

Leaning back, Joe pulled on the thick strap of black leather, forcing Cliff’s head up off the bed. The boy slowly bent backwards as Joe continued to pull; for every fraction of an inch that the kid’s head moved back, the pain in his twisting spine grew geometrically. The force caused the belt to sink deeply into Cliff’s neck—not completely cutting off his air but impeding the flow down his trachea enough to cause the bitch to wheeze frantically.

Cliff’s hands jerked and pulled at the silk tie binding his wrists; Joe could feel the boy’s fingertips desperately twining in the fur on his ripped abs. Nothing the kid could do would loosen the knot; he was as helpless as if he’d been caught in a steel trap. Cliff looked up involuntarily—and caught sight of his own image in the mirror.

Somehow, that was the worst thing of all. His mind was still fogged with an intense chemical haze from the forced poppers; it only seemed to intensify the horror. He’d been pulled so far backwards that his chest was off the bed. His face was already starting to turn blue and his painful, labored attempts to breathe deeply had forced saliva out of his mouth where it ran down his chin in a foamy drool. It was grotesque and sickening—and he wasn’t actually even being strangled yet.

But it was coming. He knew it was coming.

The most surreal aspect of the whole thing was his cock. He was being raped and murdered, but—as he could see very well—the biggest, most intense erection he’d ever experienced was flopping around between his smooth thighs and slapping against flat, sweat-beaded belly.

“Don’t,” he cried out, “Please stop…”

At least, that’s what Cliff heard in his head. What came out of his mouth was more of a choking, gagging sound, accompanied by more streamers of drool trailing from his chin.

“Shaddup, faggot, and work my dick,” Joe growled. He wrapped the belt around both palms and, grinning sadistically, rode Cliff’s ass like a bucking bronco, using the belt to control the meat like reins. Joe’s thick cock, plugged up the kid’s fuckhole like a baseball bat, could sense whenever the homo’s jerking and kicking slowed; the alpha lost that sensation of moist velvet caressing the swollen, leaking head of his shaft.

To get it back, all he had to do was pull on the reins and cut off a little more of Cliff’s air.

The next fifteen minutes—the last fifteen minutes of Cliff’s life—were a pit of nightmarish horror as the smooth young faggot was slowly and incrementally choked to death.

Every jerk on the belt made it that much harder to breathe, to pull air into his lungs. Cliff no longer paid attention to the searing pain in his ass; he could still feel the alpha’s enormous cock reaming out his rectum, but his entire being was focused on the effort of breathing. And again, another pull on the belt, and this time Cliff both heard and felt something crack in his neck. Against his will, he tried to look in the mirror again. It took a little effort—his head was tilted back now, so he had to point his eyes downward but they responded slowly, and it took a moment for him to see himself.

Joe’s cock was still smashing Cliff’s prostate, keeping the slut in an erect state, which is why Cliff wasn’t able to piss himself when his eyes focused on his image.

For a moment, he refused to recognize himself. That couldn’t be him, that gargoyle in the mirror. Cliff was rapidly aging out of the twink category, but he prided himself on his youthful, boyish appearance. He’d always looked younger than his actual age, and that alone had gotten him lots of dick.

But that thing in mirror was a caricature. His face, yes, but swollen and purple, his full lips now blue and parted by his thick, protruding tongue. His face burned and felt hot, so very hot—and that thing was sweating, its near-black skin smeared with clammy perspiration—but no, not him, not him…

Joe had glanced up and noticed the direction of the dying pansy’s stare. “Oh fuck yeah, watch yerself die, you piece of queer-ass shit,” he chortled cruelly. “You like that, yeah? You sick fuckin’ pervert, this is what you been lookin’ for, ain’t it? You been layin’ here night after night, lettin’ any dude who walks through the door fill you with cum, hopin’ that one of ‘em would put you outta yer fuckin’ misery and waste yer sorry ass, yeah? Well I’m here, boy, and you’re done.”

The muscled killer bent forward, not allowing any slack in the remorseless leather strap. His head nearly nuzzled Cliff’s, his hot breath disturbing the meat’s long hair, now damp and stringy with agonized boysweat. “See the way yer eyes are buggin’ out?” he whispered, the stubble on his cheek scraping Cliff’s left ear. “Watch the whites turn red as blood vessels pop. You can hear it, cantcha? That pounding in yer empty fuckin’ head? It’s yer pulse—you’ll be able to hear your heart start to fail. Damn, fag, yer droolin’ some pink foam now, see? Know what that is? That’s blood. We done jacked up yer windpipe real bad, boy—and yer dick is still hard as a fuckin’ brick!”

The pain was clawing at Cliff like some vicious living entity. The front of his throat had been squeezed so far back by the belt that ran around it that the cartilage of his trachea had cracked. Every drawn-out and desperately-fought-for cubic inch of air that the cumslut drew into his burning lungs was accompanied by a searing pain in his fractured windpipe. And even though the pounding and dark buzzing in Cliff’s head made rational though difficult, the struggling homo had no problem feeling Joe’s massive shaft still plowing his hole, a relentless, unstoppable reaming that he had never known could exist—it was like he was getting fucked to the depths of his sick little faggot soul.

Joe could see that the meat was just barely hanging on. The little fuck’s ass was starting to spasm weakly; it felt good—but not good enough. Time to kick this shit into high gear.

“Looks like it hurts,” Joe chuckled, his lips inches from the side of Cliff’s head. “Looks like it hurts like fuck. Does it? Does it hurt, fag? I hope the fuck it does. The more it hurts, the more you work my tool. And I gotta tell ya, cumdump, you ain’t workin’ it good. You ain’t givin’ me no satisfaction, boy.”

Still trembling on the edge of functionality, Cliff heard and understood every word, but his entire being was engaged in the struggle of just staying conscious. The battered and abused youth knew that if he blacked out, he’d never wake back up.

The alpha’s cold, dry chuckle would have made Cliff’s blood run cold if he could have spared the attention. “Guess that means I gotta hurt ya some more,” Joe whispered seductively. “Ya like that, dontcha? Sure you fuckin’ do, you pig fuck; lookit how yer little faggot dick is droolin’ precum. Guess what, dude—I’m gonna hurt you so bad yer gonna cum like a fuckin’ geyser, cunt. Know how I’m gonna do it? Huh? Know what hurts bad enough to do that, bitch?”

Joe’s head hovered beside Cliff’s, his breath hot on the punk’s ear as he whispered. “Death, motherfucker,” he hissed. “Death is the ultimate pain. You’ll never suffer more agony that what you’re about to experience. And your dying convulsions are gonna suck the sperm right outta my balls. I’m gonna pump yer stupid fag ass full of cum and leave your dead meat to rot. Don’t that sound hot as fuckin’ hell?”

The struggle to live was wearing Cliff down, but he wasn’t ready to die. Some arrogant part of his weak, sputtering personality simply refused to believe that he was gonna die; the part that regarded him as the main character in his own story couldn’t accept that the story was about to have a dark ending.

And some part of his sick pig soul didn’t want to die because it felt so good—the sharp, searing pain in his torn rectum, the shattered sensation in his crushed throat, the blooming bruises on his back…the searing, throbbing agony of his forced, involuntary erection…it all hurt so fuckin’ good. At the very end of his short, wasted life, some part of Cliff embraced the pain, wallowed in it, fetishized it—because on a deeply subconscious level, the reamed-out and used-up fag knew that pain was the last thing he’d feel. Only death would release him from pain, and he didn’t want to die.

Joe knew it all. He knew what the meat went through when he snuffed it, and he didn’t give a shit. He was doing the homo a favor—taking a worthless pansy and giving it a purpose as his personal cumrag. Little fucker should be thanking him. Instead, the stupid cunt wasn’t even able to give his thick oozing shaft the intense stroking it needed.

“I’m done with you, ya worthless asswipe,” Joe snarled, his voice dripping with menace. “You’re even useless as a faggot—ain’t even a good buttfuck, huh? I’ll be doin’ the planet a service by takin’ out a waste of space like you, bitch. You think someone’s gonna care how much you’re sufferin’? Fuck that—no one’s gonna give a shit that you’re dead, motherfucker. No one cares. Time to die like the garbage you are, queermeat.”

Joe’s next move was so swift that Cliff never noticed it—not that the bound, struggling homo was in enough control of his sense to note anything at all. The muscle-bound alpha brought both ends of the belt together, looping the loose end through the buckle—a simple slip knot. Then, with a single brutal jerk of his powerful biceps, he cinched the belt around Cliff’s neck, sinking it in even deeper than it had been before. As the leather strap whipped into place, it moved so fast it flayed the tender flesh around the punk’s throat in a neat circle. The slashing pain was so intense, for a brief, horrific moment Cliff thought his throat had been cut.

It would have been no more horrific than what happened next. Joe had only given the belt a casual yank, but his brute strength had been enough to tighten the belt to the point that it completely crushed Cliff’s trachea. The lean, long-haired bottom pig was still alive, but no matter what happened, he’d be dead within five minutes.

His bulging, bloodshot eyes locked on the mirror, the choking, dying faggot could see the depths of his own suffering in the grotesque and distorted mask his once-handsome visage had become. Black and swollen, his cheeks smeared with snot and foamy drool, Cliff’s face was etched with strangled agony. His legs were useless, pinned under him as his killer’s weight bore him down onto the bed. His arms still struggled against the silk binding, to no avail.

He could feel it all, though—from his crushed and mangled larynx to Joe’s wiry pubes scraping his smooth asscheeks with every balls-deep thrust, to his own erect and oozing cock–even as he died, Cliff continued to suffer. Well past rational thought, he caught motion in the mirror and could see Joe draw his powerful arm back, but this time he wasn’t able to follow the idea to its logical conclusion.

“Die, motherfucker,” Joe snarled and unleashed the ultimate rabbit punch on his victim.

The muscle-bound killer’s fist struck the back of Cliff’s head with the force of a sledgehammer. Simultaneously, Joe jerked back violently on the belt. The combined impact drove Cliff’s head forward while his neck was pulled backwards. There was a loud, wet crunching sound and the top three vertebrae of Cliff’s neck exploded into tiny shards of bone, tearing through his spinal column like shrapnel.

Unluckily for Cliff, the damage to his nervous system was catastrophic but not instantly fatal. His spinal cord was severely damaged but hadn’t been completely severed. The pain was beyond anything in the young homo’s imagination. It was a searing electrical shock that tore through every nerve fiber in his body, completely filling the lean punk with burning agony. As his head lolled forward limply on his broken neck, his muscles contracted involuntarily, his slick, smooth body trembling with rigidity.

“Aw, fuck yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!” Joe grunted with pleasure as he hunched forward and unloaded a steady stream of cum into Cliff’s guts. The nearly-dead meat felt the splash of manseed deep inside, but his traumatized nerves could only record the boiling heat of Joe’s load, as if the killer had pumped his victim full of molten lead.

At the same time, the shattering of his spine had also triggered the fag’s straining cock. Cliff’s dangling head no longer allowed him to look in the mirror, but he had a perfect view of the long, ropy strands of semen that were being violently expelled from his own purple, engorged shaft.

It hurt. He was cumming so hard it hurt. It felt like his innards were being ripped out and expelled from his body in a squirt of boyspunk. Unable to look up, he never saw his cum splatter and smear on the headboard mirror.

Joe held the corpse close to him for a few moments, his powerful, bulked-out body shuddering as the fag’s death throes continued to milk his swollen, sensitive shaft. Finally, he withdrew his still-oozing rod from the punk’s mutilated asshole and let Cliff drop to the bed. The randy young fag spent his last seconds on earth suffocating face-down in puddle of his own sperm.

Standing up, Joe turned to the chair with the clothing piled on it and extracting a pale blue button-down shirt, used it to wipe the sweat and cum off his hard, hairy torso still-erect cock before tossing it onto the floor. Tucking his long shaft back into his jeans, Joe then grabbed his own shirt from the floor beside the bed and put it back on.

The last thing he did was retrieve his belt. It took a moment to pry it from around Cliff’s loose, shattered neck. It had sunk so deeply into the flesh of the throat that Joe had to sit on the bed for a moment with the head of the trembling corpse in his lap so he could dig the leather strap out. Once he’d clawed it free, he stood up, dumping the pile of dead manmeat onto the floor with a loud thump. Treading on the dead body with a contemptuous sneer, the muscled alpha threaded the belt back around his waist and left the room.

In the silent darkness, broken only by the faint flickering candlelight, Cliff’s body began to cool and stiffen. Long minutes later, there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs and someone walked into the bedroom.

Joe hadn’t been the only dude Cliff had been intending to trick with that night; he’d had multiple appointments. The next guy in line had arrived. It took a few minutes of confusion for him to locate the corpse, but once his did, he backed away in horror and fled the apartment, not stopping to alert anyone—or to wonder why the sight of the murdered slut had left him hard.

Over the next six hours, three more dudes arrived ready to fuck Cliff, only to leave hurriedly—in in terror, one in frustration, and one curiously stimulated and more eager than ever to find someone to fuck. None of them called the police.

The body wasn’t officially found for another two days, after the mail had backed up and one of the neighbors complained about the smell.

It was almost midnight and Wes was ready to rock out. He was higher than fuck and horny as hell. He’d need money soon if he wanted to wanted to keep the high going, but there were ways of getting it—even ways of combining the two.

And combining the two was something Wes was good at. Just two months past his twenty-second birthday, he was slim and lean, with a perfect twink body that managed to attract a lot of dudes. The ugly ones, the ones who were fat or old, were usually willing to pay, and Wes would whore himself out if he needed—but he preferred to play a different game. After all, why bargain when you can steal?

It was the ice, of course—whether he smoked it, snorted it or shot it up, it got him too amped up to be controlled. Aside from the rampant horniness, it made him crave danger. Things could get ugly if the guy bangin’ him caught him in the act, but that didn’t happen often. And anyway, he was getting a lot better a rifling through wallets whenever his fuckbuddies’ backs were turned.

He was just under six feet tall with a broad face darkened with the faintest hint of facial hair under his turned-up nose and across his cheeks. His smooth, clear skin was not yet tainted from the meth use, although the dilation of his large dark eyes hinted at it. His brown hair was cut short on the sides of his head, but left longer—about three or four inches—on the top, carefully arranged to look casually tousled.

He was looking to take a dick up his ass and had dressed to make sure he got it. He wore a gray long-sleeve t-shirt that clung tightly to his lean, boyish chest. His black skinny jeans, even though they were tight enough to highlight the muscles in his long legs and the drug-enhanced bulge in his groin—and were held up by a thick leather belt clasped shut by a buckle with a black-on-black Superman logo—still sagged enough to show a couple of inches of the colorful boxers underneath.

His feet padded quietly in a pair of Under Armour Jet Express hightops; the kicks were a bright shade of blue that contrasted nicely with the black jeans. Since the jeans rode so low on Wes’s hips, the hems caught in the uppers of the sneakers, making it look like he’d deliberately tucked them in.

In short, Wes looked exactly like what he was, a hot little twink on the lookout for cock. The fact that he was also on the lookout for cash was probably a bit more obvious than he’d have liked. But it was Friday night and the gay bar was packed and raucous; the noisy crowd even managed to explain away some of the noticeable signs of Wes’s meth use, like his sweating and jitteriness.

The bar was only part of the large nightclub; it was teeming and dark, but it opened out onto a huge dance floor that dazzled the eyes with strobes, mirror balls, and smoke machines. The dance floor occupied at least half the building, while the bar only took up about a quarter. The other quarter was taken up by offices, bathrooms, and a game room with some arcade games and a couple of pool tables. Tonight, all the rooms were filled to capacity.

Wes had already cadged a drink of an old fat guy with a long beard and was leaning back against a wall and surveying the crowd for a likely mark when his eyes were drawn to a dude who’d just entered the bar from the game room. The guy was huge, at least six and a half feet, with black hair and stubble on his face; the hair was mostly hidden under a red trucker’s cap. He sported a white cotton wifebeater, too small and tight to leave any details of the stud’s muscle-bound and fur-covered chest to the imagination. The dude’s powerful build was obvious in every movement he made; the way his biceps and deltoids flexed as he turned and set his pool cue into a rack by the door made Wes drool with lust.

The stoned-out hustler moved away from the wall and approached the hot stud. As he got closer, he could see the guy’s tight jeans, faded to sky-blue and worn to the point of softness, with a tear on the inside of the left leg that teasingly revealed a firm, hairy inner thigh. The jeans were tucked into a pair of brown Justin Wyoming pull-on workboots.

The closer he got to the hulking stud, the more certain Wes was that this was the guy he was looking for. This guy was capable of feeding him dick the way he wanted, the way he so desperately needed tonight. And someone this hot had to have cash; the moment the stud looked away, Wes would pocket his dough.

Wes had no way of knowing it—and would have been too high and horny to pay attention if he had had a way—but he was very unlikely to catch this stud with his guard down. There was little the Trucker missed, especially when he was dealing with fagboy fuckmeat.

It’d been a couple of weeks since the Trucker left his last fucktoy dead in a ditch; he was back on the hunt and looking for a kill. He was familiar with this place; he’d stopped off here on his last haul through this town. On that occasion, he hadn’t found anything worth sticking his dick into; he’d ended up offing a street punk in an alley, but it had left him feeling unsatisfied.

Of course, that had been on a weeknight. This was Friday night—almost Saturday morning—and the place was full. The Trucker was sure he’d find someone tonight; in fact, he’d though he already had. The boy had been small and dark, hairy with olive skin. The Trucker had followed him into the game room and picked up a game of pool with him, but within minutes, the kid’s friends had shown up. The Trucker finished the game, but deep inside, he was raging with frustrated desire. The little punk never knew how lucky he was that his friends showed up.

Wes wasn’t lucky, and he didn’t have any friends. He approached the Trucker head-on, brazenly grinning up at the well-built hunk. “Hey, man, wanna buy me a drink?”

The Trucker glanced down incuriously at the boy, as he would at an insect crawling on the pavement.

“I’ll make it worth yer while,” the boyslut said.

“Yeah?” the Trucker inquired impassively. “How?”

Wes was too high for subtlety. “In the sack. I’m a great fuck.”

The Trucker sneered. “Yeah, heard that before.”

The DJ on the dance floor changed the music; the new shit was loud and cacophonous. Wes didn’t even try to make his voice heard over it; he just reached out and grabbed the massive ridge of denim-wrapped flesh that ran down the older man’s thigh. He didn’t expect it to be real; it was way too big. And he was used to guys padding out their groins; it’d get a lot of looks in the bars, even if it did lead to eventual disappointment.

With this type of fake enhancement in mind, Wes openly slipped his hand into the tear in the Trucker’s jeans. His fingers slid across the firm, thick thigh—and then stopped as they came into contact with an enormous shaft of semi-soft throbbing manmeat.

He looked up into the Trucker’s face, his eyes wide with amazement. He couldn’t believe the dude’s cock was really that big. “Forget the drink,” he said with an audible gulp during a lull in the music, “My apartment is three blocks from here. Put it in me, bro.”

The Trucker smirked. “Sure, faggot. I could use a good workout. Lessee if you can go the distance.”

This was what he’d been waiting for—meat that provided its own death pit. The Trucker was tired of cleaning out his cab after every fresh kill.

For his part, Wes was thrilled. He was stunned by how easy it was to lure his mark; the thought that he was the mark being lured never crossed his mind. What did flash across his mind was that if this dude was so eager, even if he did notice Wes had gone through his wallet he probably wouldn’t mind.

Ice had made Wes make bad decisions and jump to wrong conclusions before, but this was far and away the worst.

“C’mon, man, just follow me,” he said and started making his way through the crowd.

The Trucker was tall enough that he didn’t have to follow on the punk’s heels to see which way he was headed, and that suited him just fine. He left a little space between himself and the meat so that later on, nobody would associate the two of them together. Not that it was likely they’d be noticed in the randy, gyrating crowd anyway, but there was no sense in the Trucker taking chances.

After all, the meat was taking enough chances for them both.

Wes made it outside first. The Trucker ambled along, not worried about losing the kid; he knew he had this faggot already hooked. He took his time to cross the dance floor and walk nonchalantly out of the building in front of the bouncer—obviously alone. Nothing to connect him with the stupid little fuck who stood waiting under a streetlight halfway down the block and across the street.

The Trucker could see him the moment he exited the door. He walked towards him but kept to the opposite side of the street. The footsteps of his thick-soled workboots echoed off the nearby walls, but otherwise the side street was relatively quiet. Nobody hung out in front of the bar; most of the action was in the back, where there was parking and a patio with an outside bar. There was no one about to see him quickly cross the street and join the kid.

Wes was tweaking and impatient. He was afraid the hot musclestud had changed his mind until he saw the dude come out of the bar. He relaxed as much as the meth would let him, watching the tall, masculine figure stroll towards him, his legs swinging wide to accommodate the massive tackle that hung between them.

Without the noise and commotion of the bar to distract him, Wes was able to notice a few details that had escaped his attention before, like the jingly bits of metal that bounced on the dude’s broad chest and dangled from a chain around his neck; as the Trucker got closer, the slut realized they were dog tags. He also got a better look at the stud’s face.

He was aroused not only by the strong jaw and cheeks covered with just enough jet-black stubble to cast a shadow, but by the cold, hard expression on the handsome face and the icy glint in the pale blue eyes that he glimpsed momentarily under the brim of the cap. The last two were obvious danger signals; if Wes was less fucked-up, he might have heeded them. As it was, they just fed into his horniness, his craving for sexual danger.

The Trucker followed silently, his heavy footfalls the only sign he was keeping up. Wes’s Under Armour kicks made no sound on the gritty, cracked pavement as he dodged litter and reeking puddles in the alleyway, helped by an occasional overhead light. They crossed a couple of side streets, sticking to the alley, and suddenly came to a residential block.

“Over here,” Wes said and headed to the left towards a small two-story brick apartment building. The place was old and run-down; the windows were tiny and some of the ones upstairs had AC units precariously dangling from the sills, droning into the warm night. There were cracks in the brick from settling; none had been repaired and some of them were old and alarming large.

There was an oil-stained patch of asphalt in the rear that served as a parking lot; at the moment, it was mostly empty—no surprise, on a Friday night—with just a couple of broken-down pickups and a huge late-80’s Chrysler that belonged in a museum. Down the side of the building was regular pattern of a doorway followed by two windows; it looked like there were about four apartments down this one side.

Wes and the Trucker crossed the cracked, weed-choked asphalt to the rear-most door on the side. It was thin and painted a dingy, weathered white; it took Wes a moment to get it unlocked since the rusted light fixture above the door had no bulb and probably wouldn’t have worked if it had.

Once inside, Wes flipped on the light switch, revealing a tiny, barely-furnished efficiency apartment, a single room with a kitchen nook jutting off to the rear and a small bathroom. The barren, sterile light of a single overhead bulb was enough to illuminate the small space. The harsh overhead light shed no softening shadows on Wes’s bed—a mattress and box spring set sitting on the floor with no frame. The fitted sheet—once white, now with a sickly yellow tinge—still clung tenaciously to the mattress, but the flat sheet and the pillows were in a tangled mass halfway on the floor.

There was a large flat-screen TV against one wall (far and away the most expensive thing in the entire apartment), but no other furniture at all. The kitchen sink was piled with dishes and glasses; the only reason they didn’t litter the counter as well was that Wes didn’t have any more. Not to say that the counter was bare; on the contrary, it was cluttered with lots of empty booze bottles—most of them the cheap plastic kind.

The Trucker took it all in as he silently locked the door behind him. Wes never noticed. “Here, lemme open a window,” he said evidently embarrassed by the almost visible funk of cigarettes, meth, weed and boyspunk. And the room was stifling—Wes had hocked his AC months ago.

“Naw, boy, leave ‘em closed,” the Trucker drawled, “I like to sweat. And I wanna make you sweat.”

The boy turned to the towering stud, the bulge in his crotch pulsing visibly. For the first time, he got a good look at the Trucker’s chest—the muscled hunk was already perspiring enough to make his thin cotton wifebeater transparent. Wes could see details that had been invisible before, the thick, wiry chest fur, the large erect nipples surrounded by dark circles of flesh…

The Trucker leered, a cold, shark-like grin spreading across his handsome face. “Gonna hafta see if you deserve my wad, boy. Yer gonna hafta work for it—and if you ain’t workin’ hard enough, I got way to make ya. Think you can handle that?”

In response, Wes peeled off his t-shirt, revealing his smooth, lean, boyish chest, already glistening with sweat himself. “Dude, I can handle whatever you got,” he boasted.

The Trucker’s grin got even wider. He was gonna have so much fun proving the stupid little faggot wrong.

Digging into his pocket for his pack of Marlboros, he lit one up before reaching up and taking off the red trucker’s cap and tossing it on the floor. His hair was short but not shaved, a pure black that gleamed in the overhead light like silk. Wes, noticing the lit smoke, pulled back a small pile of dirty clothes near the mattress to reveal an ashtray on the bare wood floor; next to it were a phone charger and a small metal lamp, both plugged into the wall and within easy reach of the bed. The boywhore fished his own cigarettes out of his pocket, but didn’t get the chance to burn one.

Eager as a puppy, Wes dropped his pack of generic smokes and darted across the room. He instantly ran his hands over the rippled muscles on the Trucker’s hard, furry abs, feeling them through the thin fabric of the wifebeater. He stuck his hand down inside the Trucker’s jeans, reaching for the hem, but he made the mistake—or perhaps it was deliberate—of going in front and center, like he was reaching for the alpha’s dick.

The Trucker knocked his hand away. “Uh-uh,” he said, “You ain’t earned the right to feel my cock yet.” The stud grabbed the shirt and pulled it up out of his waistband before he let Wes continue.

Wes paused for a moment, unsure of himself. The Trucker took a deep drag off his cigarette and exhaled a thick cloud of bluish smoke into the punk’s face. “Whatcha waitin’ for, boy?” he growled, “I toldja to pull my shirt off!”

Responding instinctively to the hard edge of command in the Trucker’s voice, Wes grabbed the hem of the shirt and pulled it up. The hard-bodied alpha raised his arms to let the shirt come off over them; he knew damn well that the whore wasn’t tall enough to pull the shirt up over his head, but he kept the pretense up.

Wes has risen up on the toes of his electric-blue hightops in his attempt to raise his arms high enough when the Trucker suddenly planted his big hand on the back of the kid’s head and rammed Wes’s face into his hairy, reeking armpit. The kid gasped as the alpha ground his face into the warm, wiry pit hairs.

Before he could react, Wes’s face was pulled back, then forcibly rubbed against the Trucker’s chest. The powerful top was clutching a handful of the cunt’s hair, using it like a handle to maneuver Wes’s head. The boy could feel the alpha chest fur, moist with sweat, scratching at his face, when suddenly there was an erect mound of flesh in his mouth.

“Work my nipple, faggot,” the older man hissed roughly. Wes obey, slurping eagerly at the large knot. For a moment, he dug his teeth in and leaned back, stretching the dark flesh out, then the Trucker cuffed him in the head.

“That’s enough, cunt,” he snapped, pulling his shirt off himself and tossing it on the floor. “I gotta take a leak.” Walking to the bathroom, he bent down momentarily and tapped his ash into the ashtray beside the bed. It wasn’t a characteristic move for him. Usually, he just let the ash fall on the floor—after all, with the hour, the meat would be long past caring if the floor was dirty—but he had a gut feeling this time.

He was right. From the corner of his eye, the Trucker caught the whoreboy’s eyes glued to his ass. While that in itself wasn’t unusual—faggots always stared at the way denim cradled his firm, round asscheeks—there was something odd about the way the homo kept his eyes on one spot like a laser. The experienced mankiller knew exactly what was going on—the kid was fixated on his wallet.

The alpha turned back and retrieved his shirt. He removed the wallet form his hip pocket, rather ostentatiously, wrapped the shirt around it, and tossed it back down into his upturned cap lying on the floor. Satisfied, he headed to the bathroom.

It was a trap, of course. As he stood at the toilet, pounding out his piss, his blood boiled at the thought of the cheap hustler trying to steal from him. At the same time, the thought of what he’d do to the punk if he actually did try anything was starting to get him stiff. He let the stream of piss slow to a stop and listened, but heard nothing.

The kid was waiting. The Trucker could play that game, too. He kept still and silent for a good five minutes before he heard a faint rustle form the bedroom. When he threw the door open, he was already prepared for what he found.

Wes had already stripped. His gear was tossed onto the pile of dirty clothes; the belt with the black Superman logo was coiled on top. The slim youth was crouched, nude but for his ped socks, over the Trucker’s cap on the floor. He’d already managed to unwrap the shirt from the wallet and had just opened it up when the bathroom door opened and the Trucker emerged.

The room was so small the large, muscled killer was standing over Wes before the thieving fagboy even knew he was there. His pulse pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, Wes slowly turned to look at the Trucker’s brown, scuffed workboots next to him, then raised his eyes.

The homo punk’s gaze crawled up the Trucker’s thick legs, noticing almost for the first time how the tight denim barely contained the firm calf muscles, how the tear on the left thigh revealed the power of the thick thigh behind it. Then he raised his eyes further to the groin and gasped involuntarily in shock.

Wes, despite his youth, had taken a lot of dick in his life, but this…this was as intimidating as fuck. The Trucker’s erect member, huge and swollen, jutted from the unzipped fly out over the kid’s head; as he watched, a large transparent bead of precum welled out and fell on him—Wes could feel the moist potent heat of the drop on his scalp.

The thick veins writhing across the surface of the enormous cock expanded as the dark shaft pulsated. Wes was transfixed, both horrified and attracted by the massive rod of manmeat—it was too big, it would literally tear him a new asshole, but it was such hot fucking proof of manhood that the young power bottom couldn’t help getting hard himself, despite the inherent danger of the situation. The meth still circulating in his system went some ways towards explaining this—but not all the way. Stone cold sober, Wes still craved cock to the extent that he’d have walked into a bear trap to get this hot hardbodied stud’s tool.

It was hard to tear his gaze away from that mesmerizing rod of glistening, pulsating manmeat, but Wes’s eyes were drawn upwards, along the dude’s ripped, hairy abs to the dark forest of body hair covering the alpha’s broad, bulked-out chest. The glint of metal indicated the presence of the top’s dogtags, nestled in the dark, furry valley between the twin peaks of his thick hubcap pecs from which the large dark nipples protruded.

Again, the instant impression was of overwhelming masculine power. There was something about the alpha’s muscle-bound torso that suddenly reminded the lust-distracted faggot that he’d just been caught stealing. In his sudden fear, he raised his eyes to the Trucker’s face.

He took one look at the expression of unholy rage and triumph on the Trucker’s face and went pale in fear.

“No, man,” he started, “It ain’t what ya think—”

The Trucker bent down and slammed his fist into Wes’s temple. The blow to the head didn’t completely knock the whore out, but it sent him sprawling dazed onto the floor.

The muscled killer had tossed his first butt into the john. He pulled his pack out and lit another as he walked around the stunned, moaning youth. “So ya thought it was smart to go for my wallet, huh?” he sneered. “Guess I’m gonna hafta teach ya what a bad fuckin’ idea that was.”

Wes groaned tried to rise, placing his right hand flat on the floor to brace himself. Before he could move, the Trucker was there, grinding his bootheel onto the back of Wes’s hand.

“AHH! Wha—wha—” Wes cried out as the Trucker crouched down, keeping the cunt’s hand pinned to the wood floor.

“Ya see,” the Trucker said in an almost conversational tone, “I was just gonna fuck ya and snuff ya, but now I’m gonna hafta make ya suffer. You were gonna die tonight anyway, faggot, but now yer gonna die in agony. I gotta teach you a lesson that you’ll remember for the rest of your worthless life—which I’m guessing is gonna be about another half hour at most.” He paused and took a long, searching look at Wes’s lithe, lean body. “You’re young; you might make it to forty minutes. It don’t matter, as long as you learn what a huge fuckin’ mistake you made.”

Wes was about to reply that he already knew he’d made a mistake bringing this huge sexy psycho home when the Trucker reached down, grabbed one of the boy’s splayed fingers—the index finger—and jerked it up, violently. The snapping of bone wasn’t very loud but it echoed in the small room.

Wes’s scream was even louder.

“Good thing all yer low-life neighbors are out partyin’,” the Trucker chuckled. “Ain’t no one around to hear ya scream, asswipe. Not like they’d bother to help a worthless cumguzzlin’ fag like you anyway.”

The middle finger was next. It was larger, so the snapping sound was louder. “Are ya learnin’ to keep yer homo hands off my shit?” the sweat-slicked muscular killer asked, flicking the ash from his smoke into the cunt’s hair. Wes couldn’t answer; he could only moan and sob. “No?” the Trucker grinned. “Fuck, yer a stupid sack of shit. Guess I gotta keep learnin’ ya, huh?”

When the Trucker broke Wes’s ring finger, the cheap rentboy reacted, beating on the Trucker’s leg with his left hand and drawing his knees up under himself, trying to unbalance the sadist kneeling on his hand. The sadistic alpha laughed cruelly and leaned forward to put his entire body weight onto the bootheel that was crushing Wes’s hand.

“See, that’s the problem with you dumbass faggots,” he jeered, “Ya don’t even appreciate a good education. Gotta make ya learn the hard way, no matter how long it takes.” Wes’s howls of pain as his pinkie finger was shattered made the cracking of the bone almost inaudible, but they were nothing to the noise the cunt made when the Trucker went to work on his thumb. The muscle-bound killer didn’t break it; he wrenched it out of its socket, dislocating it, and wrung it around in huge circles, tearing the ligaments and tendons until it was useless.

Abruptly, the Trucker stood up and stretched. He stepped away from Wes and headed towards the kitchen. “Might as well make myself comfortable while I’m educatin’ ya, boy. Got anything decent to drink in this place?” He opened the cabinets and fridge. “Shit, all ya got is a coupla Buds? Figures. Worthless asshole.” There being no other alternative, he grabbed one anyway.

Wes had curled into a fetal position, cradling his broken and useless right hand. “You—you—” he sobbed, “You fuck—fuckin’ psycho…”

“Yeah, yeah,” the Trucker drawled as he opened the beer and took a swig. He walked over to the bed and placed the can on the floor next to the mattress, then returned to Wes. The whoreboy was just rising to his knees when the Trucker approached, grabbed a handful of the kid’s brown hair and dragged him, kicking and squalling, over to the bed.

Seating himself on the mattress at what would be considered the foot of the bed, the Trucker pulled Wes’s head into his crotch, and with his dick running across the wailing homo’s face, wrapped his leg around the kid’s neck to hold him in place. The well-built sadist then bent down and, grabbing the youth’s left arm, brought his hand up and continued the lesson.

This time he started with the little finger, a quiet snap that added no more to the agonized bleating that the pansy bitch was already making. “See, the best way to learn somethin’,” the Trucker said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaling into Wes’s face before taking another swig of beer, “Is to make sure it’s associated with somethin’ you ain’t gonna forget.” He went for the index finger this time, slowly bending it backwards until it cracked like a green twig. “Like pain. Ya feelin’ me, faggot?”

Wes screeched, his right arm flailing against the Trucker’s restraining leg, his mangled fingers slapping uselessly against the tight faded denim.

The cold, sadistic killer chuckled and knocked the ash from his smoke into Wes’s tear-streaked face before settling it back between his lips and causally breaking the ring finger on his left hand. The frantic fagboy jerked and kicked, his legs scrambling vainly on the wood floor, unable to find a purchase. “Stop! Help! Stop!” he screamed suddenly as he realized that he wasn’t going to be able to get out of this by himself—and that this was turning out far worse than he’d ever thought possible.

“Shaddup,” the Trucker snapped and punched him in the face.

Wes grunted, stunned by the impact that was so hard, it had broken the thin bone behind his left eye, which instantly began to swell and darken. His head lolled as the Trucker bent his index finger past the breaking point, the loud snap heard easily over Wes’s semi-conscious moans.

The Trucker chugged the rest of the beer, then jammed the smoldering butt of his smoke into the can and tossed it aside. Standing up, he let Wes slump to the ground, wallowing in pain. “Fuck,” the alpha grunted, “Got yer fuckin’ horse piss beer on my hands.” He headed to the bathroom and ran them under the sink.

It had taken him less than sixty seconds, but when he came back out, the Trucker found that Wes had managed to regain his feet and was trying to escape. Even though there was no possibility of that, the Trucker growled malignantly as he watched the panicked whoreboy’s futile attempts to work the doorknob of his own front door with all his fingers and one thumb broken and useless.

“Get back here, you stupid sack of faggot shit,” he snarled crossing instantly to him, “I ain’t done with you yet, asswipe. You still gotta lot to learn before you take yer dirt nap, cunt.”

Wes looked up at him, his youthful, once-arrogant face gray with shock and despair, and had a sudden realization of the nightmare he was about to endure. Blubbering mindlessly, he lost control of his bladder, his piss running down his legs and soaking his socks—and spattering on the Trucker’s boots.

Incandescent with rage, the sadistic powerhouse grabbed the desperate punk with both hands—one hand clamped around his throat and the other hand snapped shut on his scrotum like a steel trap, shutting off the flow of urine—and hoisted him in the air.

“Piss on me, will ya, you goddam faggot scum?” the Trucker roared and flung Wes headlong into the kitchen. Flying across the counter and stove, Wes barely had time to fling his arms over his head before he slammed excruciatingly into the far wall and fell to the floor with a clatter of pans and dishes.

The dazed, semi-conscious found himself flailing helplessly on the kitchen floor as the heavy, ominous tread of the Trucker’s boots came closer. Aside from the horrible pain wracking his lean, firm body, his sensations were vague. He knew that those approaching footsteps meant unrelenting suffering and torment, and that it had something to do with some imagined idea of hot intense sex he’d hoped for, but everything else was confused and distorted. He wasn’t even entirely sure where he was; this kinda pain couldn’t be happening in his own room…

The Trucker stood over the mewling boycunt writhing on the floor and kicked him in the gut, his steel-toed workboot sinking deeply into Wes’s smooth, soft, flat belly. “HOOG!” the faggot grunted as the impact knocked the air out of him. Wes looked up at the Trucker, his face soundlessly expressing his horror as he tried desperately to inhale.

The hardbodied alpha knelt down by Wes’s head. He grabbed the fuckboy’s carefully sculpted hair—now a tousled mass—and jerked his head up. Staring into the kid’s eyes, he spit into Wes’s face, the frothy spittle splattering on the punk’s forehead and trickling down into the boy’s left eye, which had turned black and swollen shut by now. The older man radiated violence and cruel power in the same way his slick mansweat filled the air with an acrid mix of testosterone and adrenalin, and some dim part of the whore’s mind was aware of his own traitorous, involuntary erection—

Wes heard the words but couldn’t process them. Out of his good right eye, he could see the Trucker’s handsome, scruff-covered face just inches from his—such a hot fucking dude couldn’t be trying to kill him, this was some kinda nightmare or he’d gotten hold of some bad ice and was freaking out—

The Trucker stood, pulling Wes up with him, one hand still clutching a hank of the boy’s hair and the other locked around his throat. This time, the alpha held the kicking pansy aloft for a moment, letting the boy choke and gag as his own body weight crushed his throat. Then he flung the slut across the room as hard as he could.

Wes hit the wall next to the window, collapsing the drywall and leaving a massive dent as he fell limply back to the floor with a thump like a sack of potatoes hitting the ground. He was still trying to catch his breath when the Trucker was on him again, hoisting him up by the throat. “You still want my cock, fag? Don’t worry, asswipe, I’m still gonna stick it in ya. You’ll get my load, cocksucker. ‘Course, you may have too much brain damage by then to enjoy it—but I’ll fuckin’ enjoy it enough for both of us. Sounds like a fair deal, huh, motherfucker?”

The frantic youth instinctively tried to claw at the Trucker’s arm. Every single contact of his hands on the brutal stud’s bicep and tricep was agony as his broken fingers twisted excruciatingly with the impact. But the crushing pain in his throat was swiftly overtaking his notice—his entire body weight was collapsing his esophagus in the Trucker’s vise-like grip.

He couldn’t breathe. Panic bubbled up in his fear-frozen pansy brain; lack of air had triggered a subconscious terror of asphyxiation.

Wes had never spent a moment of his shallow, drug-addled life speculating on what would be the worst way to die; now he knew, without any thought being involved. He didn’t want to choke to death.

The nude queerboy tried to plead wordlessly with the Trucker. A less experienced killer wouldn’t have been able to read the desperate expression on the swelling, blackening face, or understand the depths of sheer horror behind the tears leaking from the one eye not already swollen shut—but the Trucker did. He laughed aloud, a hard, cruel sound that drowned out the thick grunting noises coming from Wes’s closed-off throat.

“Don’t worry, cunt, I ain’t done with ya yet,” he chuckled. “Trust me, motherfucker, you’ll know when I’m offin’ ya—I’ll make goddam sure of that.” Then he gut-punched Wes twice in swift succession, his rock-hard fist first sinking into the kid’s belly as before. The second blow landed squarely on the solar plexus and Wes forgot all about the pain in his fingers and almost forgot the pain in his throat.

The Trucker laughed again as he watched the suffering faggot shudder limply in his grip. “Looks like yer about to go to sleep, boy,” he drawled. “Am I borin’ you, fuckmeat? Here, you stupid piece of fag shit, maybe this’ll teach ya to pay attention!”

He slammed the kid headfirst into the TV, holding him by the neck and throwing him like a dart. Wes’s head cracked the screen; his chest hit the TV stand. The stand was cheap particle board, but the boywhore hit it hard enough and at just the right angle to break two ribs on his left side.

The punk hit the floor and didn’t move. The Trucker lit up a smoke and sat back down on the bed, keeping an eye on the heaving, gasping pile of boymeat. He knew he needed to pace himself or he’d whack the motherfucker before he’d had a chance to fuck ‘im. And as much as he wanted to make the kid die, he particularly wanted to make the kid die while riding his cock.

Wes was lying inert, wrapped in a tight, throbbing blanket of pain. It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe; it even hurt to think. Especially if he thought about what the Trucker had said to him—so he didn’t think, at least not for a while. But he could still hear the breath of his sadistic assailant, long inhales and exhales as the alpha calmly smoked his cigarette and watched Wes suffer.

After a while, a cloudy sense of self-preservation began to stir in the craven twink’s mind. He was in a dangerous situation—he wouldn’t let himself recognize the true extent of the peril—and he needed to find a way out. There was no way he could physically escape; maybe he could talk to the guy, work something out with him. The fact that his thought process shied away from the real reason behind his inability to escape—the hot stud had casually and cheerfully broken his fingers, one by one—showed his distorted his thinking was.

There wasn’t anything to work out with the Trucker except how slowly and how painfully Wes was gonna die.

The Trucker wasn’t a mind reader, but he had enough experience offing worthless rentboys to have an accurate, if general, idea of the flow of the whore’s thoughts. The kid just couldn’t fit the idea of his own death into his shallow brain. The intensely cruel alpha smiled grimly and stood up.

Wes had rolled over, about to try reasoning with the Trucker, but the tone in the muscle-bound stud’s voice stopped him cold. It took about four steps for the Trucker to reach him from the bed. As the helpless punk stared up at the hulking figure towering over him, his words dried up on his cracked lips.

That amazing furry body, muscles glistening with sweat in the dim light, the enormous hog—thick, purple, pulsing in vein-wreathed lust—it was everything he wanted in a top, but this was too much, the dude was too aggressive…

…and then Trucker bent down to grab him again. “Wanna play, little boy?” he whispered with an evil grin, and Wes lost it.

“Oh please no,” he gasped, amazed at how painful it was to speak; every breath he took shifted the sharp, jagged ends of his broken ribs inside his abdomen. “Do…do what ya wa-want, but pl-please don’t hurt me anymore, oh please sir, dear god don’t hurt me no more…I’ll, I’ll do whatever you want, please, sir, I’m so sorry, take anything ya want, just, just…just no more pain…”

His entreaties became more frantic as the older man reached out to grab him again. “No! Fuck, please, no! Oh god, oh god, please fuck please no don’t fuck no—”

Again, the Trucker grabbed him in two places—by the throat and by the scrote. This time, though, there was no dangling. The hardbodied killer whirled around, flinging Wes on the bed at full speed. The homo slut hit the mattress and bounced up off it, smacking into the wall at the head of the bed and falling back, toppling the bedside lamp and knocking the ashtray across the room, leaving a trail of sooty ashes in its wake.

Before Wes could recover—it was taking him longer and longer to come back with each new bout of abuse—the Trucker had laid him flat on his back on the bed and had climbed between his legs, propping the kid’s socked feet on his shoulders. The sick top waited until Wes seemed to be conscious enough for comprehension.

“Know what, faggot?” he jeered at the dazed, agonized youth, “All this exercise is gettin’ me horny as fuck. Think it’s time to drain my load. Time to say yer prayers, motherfucker, cause once I use you as a cumrag, I’m gonna be done with ya. The hot squirt of my manseed deep in yer guts is gonna be the last thing yer fag ass feels before I put you down, ya piece a’ shit.”

And before Wes could even blink, the Trucker slammed his gigantic shaft balls-deep into the twink’s raw, unprepared fuckhole.

If he had been capable of rational thought, Wes would have felt betrayed by the way his young, form body refused to let him lapse into blessed unconsciousness under this new onslaught of excruciating pain. The searing agony of a ripped sphincter and a torn colon shot through his lithe form, forcing him into involuntary rigidity that only increased his suffering—his body no longer flexed to accommodate the huge thick rod of manflesh spearing his innards.

And greatest betrayal of all—in spite of his fear and pain, his own seven-inch cock went rigid itself with a painful stiffness as the Trucker’s cock ground its way over Wes’s prostate. He could feel it, over all the other stimuli. The badly-beaten punk was still struggling to breathe—he couldn’t scream, but a high-pitched squeal was forced out of him by sheer agony.

“Shaddup, meat, no one fuckin’ cares,” the Trucker barked and sucker-punched Wes in the face. There was a thick wet crunch as the whoreboy’s nose was crushed, and the Trucker achieved his purpose. It damn sure got Wes to stop squealing; the stunned youth’s wide eyes, circled with gray rings of shock stared at the alpha in abject horror as blood trickled from both nostrils.

The Trucker bent over, his massive hog plugging the kid’s ass. The dogtags around his neck hit Wes’s smooth chest with a clink and slid to one side as the muscled top lowered himself until their faces were inches apart. “Worthless fuckin’ faggot, can’t even take a real man’s cock,” the alpha growled, his expression a terrifying mix of rage and demonic glee. “You’re about to ride that cock right into your grave, fucker, and if you don’t stop squealin’ like a pig, I’ll break yer fuckin’ jaw.”

He gave his hips a sudden, single pump, ripping his swollen rod out of the kid’s ass—not completely; he left the billiard-ball-sized head inside the rectum—and driving it all the way back in. Wes’s entire face went gray with agony as the gigantic horsedick reamed out his colon; he strained until sweat coursed down his face but was unable to suppress a loud, bleating whimper.

The Trucker was as good as his word. He leaned forward, putting his left hand around Wes’s throat to support his weight and driving three hard, swift blows into the fag’s jaw, wielding his right fist like a sledgehammer. The punches were delivered with the force of a steam piston and by the time they were done, the boy’s jaw was broken and he’d had three teeth knocked out.

Best of all, the whore’s body had jumped and jerked with each impact; the Trucker had felt each blow reverberate in the whore’s asshole, making it squeeze his dick. The kid was gonna be a nice, responsive fuck.

Wes wallowed in pain; his face, his ass, his hands…there was a loud humming in his head that seemed to distort things. Was he on a bad trip? There was an incredibly hot stud fucking him; he could feel the top’s broad, muscular chest pressing against his own, the wiry body fur scraping painfully across his smooth, soft skin…too much pain, something was wrong. Maybe more ice would fix it…

“I need a hit,” Wes mumbled, not fully aware that he was speaking aloud, his broken jaw barely moving, his speech slurred. “Comin’ down—gimme another hit…”

Another three blows in rapid fire, striking the cunt’s torso. The Trucker had aimed with frightening precision at the spot where the kid’s ribs had broken. Wes screeched, ignoring the agony caused by the sudden, violent motion in his snapped jaw, as the jagged ends of the ribs were driven inwards, puncturing his left lung in two places.

The Trucker grinned and began fucking the suffering fuckmeat brutally.

Wes was beaten, in more ways than one. He could only lie on his back, arms and legs outspread, and try to breathe while the muscle-bound alpha hunched over him and raped him viciously. His left lung was collapsing; every breath of air was a desperate, agonizing struggle that taxed the diaphragm and tore the lung open even further. The weight of the older man’s heavy, hulking form pressing down on him only made it worse.

All in all, it was a blessing for Wes—the frantic attempt to breathe, to merely draw air into his one working lung drew his focus from his pain.

But pain was what made Wes work the Trucker’s dick. The Trucker was not happy. The meat was supposed to spend the last few minutes of its life pleasuring him; it needed to be reminded of its duty. He looked around and noticed the small bedside lamp lying on the floor right next to him. He reached out his left arm and grabbed it, then rose up on his knees.

The sudden lifting of the pressure on his chest gave Wes a chance to inhale enough oxygen to regain full awareness. Even as the tide of nightmarish suffering rose up around him, he looked up at the Trucker looming over him, holding the lamp.

As he watched, the powerful hardbodied older man held the lamp in one hand, wrapped the power cord around the other hand and pulled them apart. There was a quick bugling of his biceps and the cord came away with deceptive ease—it had taken a lot of strength to pull it out.

The alpha threw the lamp over his shoulder; it clattered off on the far side of the room. He held the cord up in front of Wes’s face and grinned. Nothing needed to be said; the boy knew what it meant and tears welled from his blackened eyes.

A glittering light, refracted from the surface of the Trucker’s dangling dogtags, danced hypnotically in front of Wes’s eyes; the panicked whoreboy his focus to be drawn from the cord to the light, steadfastly denying the obvious implications of the former until the Trucker bent forward. The icy glint in the alpha’s cold steely blue eyes broke the trance; his hot breath on the boy’s face brought Wes back to his excruciating, terrifying reality.

“Are you scared, little boy?” the Trucker mocked, “You should be. Yer gonna die now. It’s gonna take a little while and it’s gonna hurt like fuck, but it’s gonna be worth it cause yer gonna jack me off as you kick and struggle. Your death throes are gonna milk the cum right outta my cock. That’s why ya gotta die, homo—so I can shoot my wad. Stupid motherfuckin’ faggot; all yer good for is catchin’ my load in yer dead asshole.”

The lamp cord was long. The Trucker was able not only to wrap it around both hands to ensure his grip, he was able to loop it twice around Wes’s neck, lifting the cunt’s head up by the hair. The slut was past begging or pleading by this point; pain and terror had paralyzed his ability for positive action of any kind. All Wes could do was submit as his mind spun in a benumbed circle—he’d just wanted a good hard fuck, he’d found the perfect stud, what the fuck had happened? He’d totally forgotten his attempt at theft; he was the helpless and innocent victim of…of…

In the course of wrapping the cord around Wes’s neck, the Trucker had shifted to one side slightly. As Wes peered up at the alpha, now silhouetted in front of the overhead light, the battered fuckmeat’s swollen and tear-filled eyes could only perceive a looming, hulking outline of pure masculinity, the quintessential maleness of the muscular top emphasized by the adrenaline and testosterone escaping from the alpha’s sweat and overwhelming the small room with the atmosphere of mansex.

This was what Wes had wanted, what he’d craved and had been driven to seek night after night in seedy bars and back alley. Now he had it—and it was torturing him and killing him.

The Trucker tightened the cord, grinning sadistically as it sank into the tender flesh of Wes’s throat. He could see that the meat was sinking into mental shock; nothing like a little breath control to stop that shit. The cruel stud wanted his fucktoy in the here and now as it died. And, of course, the experienced killer was right.

The moment his air was cut off, Wes was brought back to reality, abruptly and involuntarily. He had a cold, clear moment of lucidity and remembered the instinctive, gut-wrenching horror he’d felt when his powerful tormentor had held him aloft by the throat and choked him.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck no. Not this. He couldn’t die like this, no, no, no no no nononono…

Panic descended on the helpless sack of fuckmeat in a black mist that clouded his eyes; the Trucker recognized the glazed look of terror. It always happened somewhere around this stage of the game; despite everything it was told, the fagmeat was usually too stupid to fully comprehend its impending death until it was actually in the process of dying.

Which, of course, was exactly why it had to die—it needed to be brought to this level of emotional intensity to properly work the Trucker’s cock. The muscled alpha tightened the cord further and braced himself for the first spasm of panicked struggle.

And even though Wes’s life expectancy was approximately five minutes, he did manage to learn some things in the last few nightmarish moments of his short, useless life.

He learned that panic only briefly numbed the pain, and that there was a terrible price to pay for his mindless flailings in terms of sheer agony. He kicked wildly, his heels drumming on the Trucker’s back with as much impact as if they were pillows; as his feet flailed, one of his ped socks slipped off and feel to the floor.

He slapped his hands repeatedly against the Trucker’s wrists in an instinctive and utterly futile attempt to wrest the killer’s implacable, relentless hold on his throat, his snapped fingers splaying and flopping limply. The excruciating pain of the jagged ends of the broken bones grinding into tissue and each other wasn’t alleviated, merely delayed. When it hit, Wes went rigid, shuddering with neural overload.

The fingers weren’t the only thing contributing to the punk’s mental short circuit. The complete collapse of his left lung was kinda moot at this point, but the way his broken ribs tore into the deflated organ with every twist of Wes’s lean, smooth torso was another, much more painful matter.

And then there was his cock—never truly unheeded even during his darkest moments, it had remained hard involuntarily throughout his sufferings merely by the grinding, remorseless pressure exerted on his prostate by the phenomenal girth of the Trucker’s massive rod. Now, though, it was actively swelling and throbbing in tempo with his racing, terrified pulse. And every single individual throb seemed like an electrical shock running the length of his shaft and churning in his balls…

The Trucker paced himself, holding still, letting the meat massage his dick as it thrashed in terror, wrapping its smooth strong legs around his waist and squeezing tight. Once it settled down into neural shock, the cruel alpha began speaking again, knowing the meat was still conscious and able to hear him.

“Are ya grateful to me, faggot? Do ya appreciate what I’m givin’ ya? Yer gonna get the honor of bein’ my cumdump. All ya gotta do is convulse nice and hard as I choke ya to death, an’ I’ll hose yer guts with my spunk.”

The Trucker found the expression of absolute despair on Wes’s swelling, blackening face incredibly erotic; jerking the cord even tighter, he spit on the trembling cunt pinned helplessly under his powerfully-muscled body. “That’s it, motherfucker,” he hissed, “Die on my dick.”

Thick black blossoms were popping open in Wes’s field of vision as blood vessels ruptured in his eyes. His entire body was awash in pain; the pressure in his mangled chest cavity was unendurable. His hypersensitive cock was rubbing against the Trucker’s firm, flat belly, the alpha’s body fur scraping the long, cum-filled ridge on the underside of the dick like a power sander.

And above the nightmarish agony of death, the beaten and raped whoremeat could still feel drops of precum oozing from the head of its own dick—it felt hot, like magma…

The Trucker realized that the meat was very close to death. His seed began to boil, his balls began to contract, forcing his white-hot cum on its journey up his huge, erect shaft. “You ready for my load, cunt?” he whispered into Wes’s dark face.

Foamy drool trickled down the whore’s face and his bulging eyes had rolled back in his head, leaving only the blood-streaked whites visible, but there was still a tiny fragment of Wes’s personality left, desperately straight-arming death in sheer terror. It was sinking under the relentless torrent of pain and brain damage, but it was still there—and it knew what the Trucker’s question meant.

The Trucker bunched his biceps and with a loud grunt, gave the cord a powerful jerk. At the same time, the thrusting of his hips increased, plunging his enormous shaft faster and deeper into the dying boy’s guts.

A loud wet crack echoed in the small room as Wes’s esophagus was crushed into a mangled wad of cartilage. Simultaneously, the Trucker cried out, “Fuck—FUCK!!” and pumped a huge load of hot sticky cum deep inside the meat.

The little part that was still Wes felt the sharp, knife-like pain of its collapsed windpipe and the searing, boiling wetness filling it from the inside out. There was time for one last fleeting thought—what happened dude I just wanted to get fucked—and then there was one last pain, the greatest and most intense pain, and it came from his dick. In his last moment of life, Wes knew he was blowing his death load and it hurt so fucking bad, it felt like he was cumming molten glass—

—and then all that was left was convulsing meat, thrashing and ejaculating mindlessly, impaled on the Trucker’s still-shooting rod. White ropy jets of semen erupted from the dead kid’s dick, splattering across the alpha’s broad, hairy chest and smearing his dogtags. The corpse, its prostate still being forcibly massaged by the Trucker’s pumping shaft, remained erect and spewing boycum that spattered itself, pooling in the eyes and covering their grotesque, bulging blank whiteness.

After a while—he didn’t know how long—the Trucker shuddered to a stop, his huge scrotum drained. He’d pumped a full load into the meat; so much, some trickled from the dead kid’s ass when the older man pulled out. Once he got his boots back on the ground, the sweat-slick muscled stud headed to the bathroom. A few minutes with a wet towel was enough to wipe the boypig cum off his body and out of his fur.

Returning to the bedroom, the Trucker retrieved his cap, shirt and wallet. Replacing the red trucking cap on his head, covering his dark hair, he tucked his wallet in one rear pocket and his white wifebeater in the other, where it dangled out behind. Fishing out his pack of smokes, he decided to burn one while surveying the scene.

The sadistic alpha felt a sense of satisfaction; he’d done a very thorough job. The meat was on its back, blank cum-filled eyes pointed at the ceiling. The arms were above the head and the legs were spread, showing the glaze of semen leaking from the torn asshole. The semi-soft cock was still extended its full length and likely to remain so; it was glued to the flat belly by a thick crust of boyspunk.

Halfway up, the neck was puckered and drawn in so deeply it was difficult to make out the cord that was sunk into it. Above that, the faggot was unrecognizable, the face black, swollen and covered with drool from between the dead kid’s purple, foamy lips.

The corpse still twitched randomly, the toes on the bare sockless foot curling, but as the Trucker finished his cigarette, the stupid homo’s brain finally figured out it was dead and the body became still. The hardbodied alpha grinned and tossed his butt on the floor. Grinding it out with his boot, he headed for his truck, leaving the apartment door cracked open.

Figures, Donato thought, Sarge has gotta walk in and catch me in the middle of a yawn…

“You bored, Donato?” the Sarge barked.

“No, sergeant,” Donato replied.

“Awright, what’s goin’ on here? Jesus, what a fuckin’ mess. Looks like someone got terminated with extreme prejudice, as they say in the movies.”

“We got a call about a dead body, Sarge. Me and Ayers, we responded. Ayers is out talkin’ to the neighbors now.”

The Sarge ambled over to the bed and took a good look at the body. “ME on the way?”

“Yeah,” Donato replied, “Med examiner’s got the meatwagon comin’.”

“Well tell ‘im not to waste too much time over this one. Some faggot got fucked to death. And by th’ looks of this place, someone really wanted this one dead. I seen a lot of these, but this is the first one where it looks like our killer tried to put the vic through the wall. Oh, Ayers, there ya are. What’d ya find out about the dead meat?”

“Well, like you was just sayin’, Sarge, some fag who got fucked to death. Lady next door knows him as Wes—office ain’t open yet, so I ain’t gotta last name. Anyways, she sez he’s out at the bars almost every night, always bringin’ dudes home—she can hear everythin’ through wall. Even sez there’s been some yellin’ an’ fightin’ at times. Seems like the little cocksucker liked to rip off his fuckbuddies.”

“Hey, Sarge?” Donato interrupted, “Dunno if yer interested, but I found a meth pipe in a drawer in the kitchen. Some baggies with residue, too—ya want I should test ‘em?

“What, are you nuts?” the Sarge barked. “You wanna go spend the taxpayer’s money for that kinda shit? When the ME gets here, tell him to haul this pile of meat outta here. And if he can’t tell me anything more than this little fuck got the shit beat outta him by some real strong guy, he can spare me the autopsy report. I can see for myself the faggot was raped and strangled. Serves the thievin’ piece a’ shit right. Just wrap this shit up and forget it; y’all have real work to do.”

I almost missed him. I was heading west on Roman Boulevard and he popped out of one of the side streets on his skateboard; I had a split-second glimpse of him, then I was past. That glimpse was enough to make me turn around, though.

It’s been a while since I’ve been out hunting. I never got back to my last meat; the used van I’d bought threw a rod the next morning. Took me a couple of days to get a new ride—by the time I got back out to the abandoned warehouse, there was a chain-link fence around the entire property and a large sign that announced a new construction project.

I turned around and left; the meat woulda been too overripe to hold my dick anyway. Wonder what they’ll do when they start tearing the place down and find what’s left of him. In this summer heat, I bet it there won’t be much left to find—just his bones and his kicks.

At any rate, I gotta load that needs release. I need to find a punk to dump my seed in, and it looks like I just spotted one. I ease into the left lane and pull a U in my van—it’s a nondescript gray Chevy Astrovan—heading back towards the boy I’d seen.

He’s ahead on the left, about half a block up from a shopping center and heading towards it. I speed up, overtaking the kid and turning into the strip mall’s parking lot. Pulling into a spot facing the street, well away from the stores, I wait for the kid to approach. Soon enough, he glides into view.

Young—no more than eighteen or nineteen, at most. Long sandy-blond hair, almost shoulder length. His lean, firm chest is wrapped in a black Nirvana t-shirt, and he’s sporting skinny jeans so tight it’s impressive the little shit can move at all. His feet, in a pair of gray and white Adidas Top Ten Hi’s, cling tenaciously to his board as he rounds the corner into the parking lot, leaning into the turn. He passes within ten feet of me, allowing me to see the large bulge in his crotch in greater detail.

Yeah, this one would work. This meat would be acceptable to soak up my cum. Now I just need a lure.

I watch him for a while; I got plenty of time. He navigates the parking lot in decreasing circles that centers on the convenience store to my left. After about fifteen minutes, he slows to stop about thirty feet away from me. Bending down and flashing his bubble butt at me, he snags his board and heads into the gas station’s store.

Ten minutes later he comes back out with a pack of cigarettes and an agitated expression on his face. He walks to the end of the store closest to me and lights a smoke, looking around for a minute of two. Suddenly he moved towards a dude who’d just exited the store carrying a twelve-pack of beer. The kid approached and had a conversation with the guy, at one point pulling out his wallet and offering money. The other dude shook his head in clear refusal, then got in his car and left.

The long-haired kid looked dejected and continued to suck on his smoke. Five minutes later, he was approaching someone else leaving the store—a Mexican laborer with a six-pack of Modelo. Again, a brief conversation, an offer of money, and the kid gets shot down.

Took me a minute to get it, but once I did, I knew I had my lure. The little fucker was trying to get someone to sell him beer; he was too young to buy it himself.

I waited till he left the store’s lot, morosely heading back in my direction on his board. I let him get about ten feet away, starting his turn back out onto the boulevard, before I rolled down the window and called out to him.

“Yo! Brah! Hey, I ain’t from ‘round here—you know where there’s a liquor store? I wanna get some decent booze, none of this gas station crap.”

His hair fanned out behind him briefly as he whipped his head in my direction. His face was smooth, with full lips, a large nose. He had huge puppy-dog-brown eyes ringed with lashes so long they were almost effeminate; they lit up at the word “liquor”, as I knew they would.

These little suburban kids; they’re so stupid, so predictable—and so much fun to play with.

“Sure, I know a great place,” he said, somewhat unsure of himself. They got all kinda stuff. But ya gotta do somethin’ for me if I take ya there.”

“Like what?” I ask, as if I don’t already know.

“Buy me some beer. I’ll pay for it; I mean just go in and actually buy it. They won’t sell it to me—” he broke off and blushed embarrassedly.

“How old are ya, dude?” I ask.

His blush deepens. “I turned eighteen two months ago,” he admits shame-facedly. Suddenly he recovers himself, though, shaking his head so that his long hair spun out. He looks up and grins; his face is youthful and eager and I want to slam my fist into it so badly I can barely control myself.

“Hop in, dude. I’ll get ya fucked up—don’t worry about it.”

With a cheerful smile, the punk makes the worst mistake in his life and opens the door to my van. Tossing his board to the floor of the passenger seat, he speaks as he climbs in. “Hey, man, I’m Timothy. Well, no, only my mom calls me that. You can call me T-Money.”

What a tool. I snort derisively and the kid gives me a suspicious side-eye. Then, noticing my physical presence for the first time, he gives me a longer look-ever.

I’m dressed for the hunt. It was hot enough outside that I had no qualms about dispensing with a shirt altogether, but I didn’t want to have my skin up against the cloth seat of the used van, so I’d slipped on a thin leather vest, leaving it unbutton to show off my massive pecs and flat ripped abs. My jeans were tight, but they were old, with a number of tears, and faded to a pale sky-blue. Halfway down my claves, they were tucked into a pair of worn black combat boots that I’d laced but left untied.

As he looked at me, I could see his dick start to get stiff; his jeans were so tight it was kinda hard to miss. I eyed it rather pointedly and grinned at the boy; he flushed beet-red and turned away. Interesting reaction.

“Ya see anything ya like?” I asked in a low voice.

The punk turned back to me, more embarrassed that ever. “I, um, I—wh-what’re ya talkin’ ‘bout, brah?” he mumbled, not looking me in the face.

I pulled over into the parking lot of a church. In the middle of a weekday afternoon, the lot was empty. I turned to face the kid. “My dick. You want it,” I said matter-of-factly.

“What?” he cried. “Dude, I ain’t gay.”

“The fuck you ain’t,” I snapped, “Yer cock is hard right now. You want me to fuck you good and hard. You know it and I know it, so stop pretendin’.”

The kid unbuckled his seat belt and inched toward the door. “Man, I done told ya I ain’t no fruit. Ain’t no way yer gonna fuck me, ya psycho.”

“The fuck I ain’t, cunt,” I hiss with an expression to match his last word. His eyes wide with sudden fear, the punk snatches at the door handle but in his haste is unable to grasp it properly. Not that it would’ve mattered; I’d’ve caught him before he exited the van.

“Shit!” he yells in desperation just as I grab a hank of his long dirty-blond hair and slam his face brutally into the dashboard. With his hair as a handle, I jerk his head back up again swiftly. “Uhhh…” the boy moans dazedly as I ram his head forward, smashing his face a second time. This time, when I pull his head back up, he’s silent. I let go and he slumps limply into the seat, unconscious.

I head out of the church lot. I know a place to go; I’ve been there before. It’s not that far from the last place I dumped meat. It’s been a couple of years since I was on the property; at that time, there had been an operating business in the building, so I’d gone there at night. Now, it was abandoned like much of the rest of the neighborhood.

I could park in the back and shove the meat out into the drainage ditch behind the property in broad daylight. And it won’t matter that it hasn’t rained in weeks; no one goes back there. By the time anyone finds him, there won’t be anything left beyond a bloated, unrecognizable corpse.

A car whips out of nowhere as I start to pull out of the lot, forcing me to slam on my brakes. The kid slides off the seat and slumps on the floorboards like a pile of dirty laundry. Good place for him; I leave him there as I head to the east side.

I cruise slowly through the industrial neighborhood, tracing my way back to the kill site. Most of the buildings around here are empty if not downright abandoned; there’s no traffic and the parking lots are empty. I’ll have plenty of privacy while I play with my meat—at least urban blight is good for something.

Finally, I turn onto a side street. Just past the next intersection is the long, low one-story building that has the strip of parking in the rear, up against the drainage canal. It takes less than three minutes to whip around the building and back into a parking space up against the canal’s low guardrail.

One of the reasons I chose this van was because it had been a utility or cargo van at one point; the rear section was sealed off from the cab. Nice and private; the only windows were the polarized ones on the rear doors. Of course, it’s a pain to have to drag the meat out of the passenger seat, but it’s worth the effort.

I exit the cab and walk around to the passenger side. Opening the sliding door to the back first, I then reach for the passenger door. I reach down and jerk the kid up off the floorboards. He isn’t very big; only about five-eight. And while he’s not scrawny—I can feel some firm muscles under his smooth skin—he can’t weigh more than a hundred twenty. I’m pretty built myself; I can lift him like a sack of potatoes and easily toss him into the back of the van.

Like the last one I had, I’ve made my own improvements to create a mobile killing pit. The floor is covered with Astroturf, and the walls are bare metal. I can hose the whole thing out with ease—and that’s a good thing. This one is gonna get a little…messy. The one touch I’ve added is a mirror, about two feet square, propped against the front barrier that blocks off the cab.

I’m gonna do this kid doggie style, but I still wanna watch his face as he dies.

I close the door behind me; the interior is dim but not dark. It’s hot, though, and my chest is already slick with sweat; I slip out of my leather vest and lay it carefully by the rear doors. As I do, I hear a loud groan behind me—the little shit is starting to wake up. I stand up—not fully, I have to slouch some to avoid hitting my head against the roof—and dig in my pocket for the zip tie I’d brought with me. My jeans are tight enough that it takes me a moment to retrieve it.

He’s still groaning as I approach him, his long eyelashes fluttering as he starts to awaken. I flip him over onto his belly and secure his hands tightly with the zip tie. He starts trembling. “Whu—” he mutters thickly, “Wh-whas happen…”

“Shh,” I whisper, patting him gently on the back of the head. “I got somethin’ that’ll explain everything. Lemme go grab it.”

What I have is located in the large lower compartment of the center console in the front of the van. Now that the whoreboy is bound, I can retrieve it. I open the side door again and go into the cab. I’m gone no more than fifteen seconds, but it’s enough for the kid to be fully awake and trying to roll over when I get back.

Time to put the stupid little punk in the picture. Sliding the door closed behind me, I smile sweetly at him. “I got somethin’ for ya, darling’,” I drawl. “I got somethin’ long and hard, and it’s gonna feel so fuckin’ sexy when I stick it in ya.”

He looks up, and I notice a crusty trail of dried blood extending from his left nostril. He’s still in some discomfort from having his face slammed into the dashboard, but it’s nowhere near overwhelming enough to cause him serious distress. His face is flushed again—but not with embarrassment; this time he’s angry.

I allow my smile to grow broad. “Oh, I wasn’t talkin’ about my cock. I mean, yeah, I’m gonna fuck ya in the ass, but that wasn’t what I was talking about.” I’d kept one hand behind my back the entire time’ now I brought it around to show the cunt what I was holding. “I was talking about this.”

The moment T-Money sees my knife, the color drains from his face and his eyes open so wide they look like they’re in danger of falling out. It’s an eleven-and-a-half inch long hunting knife with a seven inch serrated steel blade and a wood grip. Ideal for gutting, flaying, and general mayhem on all kinda fuckmeat.

The kid gulps in fear like a cartoon character; I laugh aloud at his fear. “Aw, this is gonna be all kinds of fun,” I grin, “Especially if you fight my cock. Cause if ya do, I’m gonna start usin’ this on ya nice and slow. Ya feelin’ me, brah? You better be down with my D, dawg, or I’m gonna jack ya up.”

The boy whimpers and seems to shrink into himself, cowering. His arms are jerking frenetically, but there’s no way the teenaged dickwad is gonna break free of that zip tie; all he’s doing is digging deep, painful furrows into his wrists.

He blinks and looks up at me but the moment his puppy-dog eyes meet mine, he looks away and gives another comic gulp. “You, uh, you don’t need the knife, man. You—you can p-put yer dick in me. Just put away the blade, dude, please…put it away and you can do what you want to me…”

I can do what I want to him anyway, and will, but I go ahead and play along with it. After all, it’s his suffering that gets me off, and if I can mindfuck him and assrape him at the same time, that just makes it so much hotter. “Sure, bitch,” I chuckle, “But I gotta cut myself some access first.”

“Hey, man, wait!” he cries out as I come nearer, but I’m not going to hurt him yet. I kick him back over onto his belly, then bend down and slip the knife under his t-shirt and start cutting. The thin cotton parts at the slightest touch of my sharpened steel blade. A couple of well-aims slashes and the punk’s Nirvana shirt slides off him, a mass of black shreds. Over the kid’s protests, I cut open his jeans too. The denim is tougher than the shirt hard been, but it’s still no match for my knife; I’m even able to saw through his leather belt in less than seven seconds.

I’m pleased. I’ve honed this blade to a razor sharpness; my work is about to pay off.

Within about a minute, the kid is lying nude—of course the little fucker is commando; despite his denials, he’s been lookin’ for dick—on the Astroturf, only his Adidas hightops left to him. “That shirt cost me thirty-five bucks!” the teen wails.

I squat beside him, fondling the silky-smooth skin of his back and his thighs. This boy is small but strong; I can feel the muscles moving under his flesh as he squirms and kicks and tries to evade my touch. “Get yer hands off me, ya fuckin’ sicko!” he yells as squeeze the firm, tender mounds of his asscheeks.

“Ok,” I say, pulling my hands back, “After all, puttin’ my hands on you ain’t anywhere near as much fun as what I’m gonna be puttin’ in ya.”

He goes quiet for a moment as I place the tip of the blade against the back of his neck and slide it, slowly and sensually, down the center of his back, following his spine down to the crack of his ass. My touch is light; there’s not enough pressure to break the skin—just enough to remind the fuckboy why he’s in this position.

After a moment, he speaks with a sob. “You—oh god, go slow, please—you-you’ll be the first, just d-don’t hurt me. Okay? Please?”

There’s a crack in his voice as he pleads that makes my cock throb. I stand up and grin. He rolls on his side to look up at me with hope and fear in his eyes. I reach down, unbutton and unzip my jeans and let my hog flop out.

Once T-Money sees my dick, his demeanor changes. The latent little faggot had been willing to get fucked in theory, as long as he could convince himself that he was forced into and didn’t really want it. Once he sees the size of my tackle, though, he knows that this is gonna hurt—bad. Real bad. I don’t like to boast, but I’m hung like a stallion. When I fuck a bitch, he stays fucked.

For good.

“Shit, dude, I can’t take that,” the helpless teen whispers, his wide eyes focused on my pulsating rod. I step behind him, planting my combat boots on each side of his legs and lowering my jeans to my knees. Kneeling, I slap the huge purple head of my schlong against the boy’s ass, spattering it with hot precum.

“Fuck yeah I am, you stupid cunt,” I whisper, mounting him like an animal and inserting my shaft into his ass. I shove as hard as I can, encountering such stiff resistance from the kid’s clenched sphincter that for a moment I’m almost worried that I’m gonna bend my dick. Then I can feel the flesh tear in his rectum and my cock slams home, penetrating the full length of his colon and sinking the head of my tool deep into his intestines. I chuckle when I feel my wiry pubes grinding against those smooth buttcheeks of his.

“Guess you were right about one thing,” I jeer, “Damn sure made ya bleed.”

The teen is unable to enjoy my taunt; he’s screaming in pain—loud shrieks that end in sobs. I laugh at his pain. “G’wan, scream like a little girl, ya fuckin’ pussy. Ain’t no one around for miles. Every time ya scream, yer ass tickles my dick, so keep it up, cunt—it feels fuckin’ great!”

I know he heard that one, because he tries to stop. He can’t be completely quiet; he’s in far too much pain, but he does manage to subdue his outburst to low sobbing moans. “Aw, you spoilsport,” I whisper, “Here, lessee if ya like this, then.”

All I’d done so far was to merely mount and penetrate the teen. Now I started fucking him, reaming my thick, vein-wrapped shaft in and out of his asshole. Each brutal pump of my hips tore his sphincter fractionally more; as he bled internally, I could feel the warm liquid flow on my cock.

I reach one hand down under him, jamming it up under his flat belly and working my way down to his dick. It ain’t huge, but it’s respectable—and it’s hard. I knew it would be; my rod is grinding against his prostate like it’s drillin’ for oil, so the motherfucker can’t help his erection. I grab hold of it and start jacking.

“Shaddup, ya dumbass little homo,” I hiss in his ear. “You fuckin’ love it, dontcha? You worthless teenage faggot—so full of hormones and sperm; all you needed was a real man to come along and drain it all outta ya, right? You young pups are all the same—you just need a genuine alpha to load you up with manseed and put you in your place.”

“Uhhh…” the punk moans, still sobbing. His legs are thrashing, his Adidas kicks scrabbling against the Astroturf, seeking purchase, but he can’t get any traction. I’m lying on top of him, my chest against his back, and I can feel the fingers of his bound hands clenching and clawing at the coarse, dark hair on my abs.

I pump the slut’s ass like a steam piston. He’s starting to accommodate himself to my rod; that’s a shame. I want it to hurt him. It doesn’t feel as good if he’s not in pain, and the more pain he’s in, the better it feels. Then I remember—in all the swiftness of the rape, the kid hasn’t noticed the mirror.

“Hey boy,” I whisper, “Look up.”

Moaning and crying, the fucker ignores me—so I grab a handful of his hair and jerk his head back. “I said look up, asswipe.”

His head bent back, he opens his eyes and finds he’s looking himself in the tear-stained, snot-streaked face. Looking up a little higher, he meets my eyes and I grin cheerfully at him. “Hey there, cunt,” I smirk, “Ya feelin’ me yet?”

I squeeze his dick hard, feeling the thick, erect shaft of flesh pulse moistly in my hand. He moans loudly, a sound somewhere between pleasure and pain, and I know he’s starting to submit. He’s starting to relax, accepting my cock and letting it plunge deep into his guts with less resistance. He’s starting to enjoy getting fucked.

And I’m starting not to enjoy fucking him. The resistance it what feels good. I like it when the meat’s ass clenches in agony on my tool. Once the little pansy starts accepting my cock, it means I’ve reamed him out and I need to find a way to re-tighten his fuckhole.

“Oh…oh…oh, yeah…” the adolescent faggot is moaning as I plow his hole. In the mirror, I can see that his face is still taut and pale with pain, but there’s a hint of a smile in his expression.

“Goddam, I knew you were a cumguzzlin’ queer-ass fairy,” I sneer at the kid; he opens his eyes wide and stares at me in the mirror, bewilderment written on his face. “I’m the real man who’s gonna give you exactly what you deserve—and what you deserve is a nice long dirt nap. I’m gonna put you in yer place, and yer place is dead and rottin’ in a ditch. Now don’t that sound fuckin’ hot as hell?”

“It ain’t what’s goin’ on,” I reply, “It’s what’s goin’ in. You’re getting loose, asshole. Yer fuckhole’s wearin’ out. How many cocks you had up there, you fuckin’ whore? What—didja bang the whole football team at yer school? Only one way to tighten up a reamed-out fag hole, ya sperm-suckin’ homo, and that’s with pain. I’m gonna hurt you, asswipe. I’m gonna hurt you so fuckin’ bad yer gonna pray for death—but you ain’t gonna die till ya milked the load outta my shaft. Remember that, boy. You can end it any time ya want, but ya gotta make me cum to do it.”

And without another word—or any warning whatsoever—I stick the knife into the punk’s back.

I know what I’m doing; I’ve done this before. I can have a lot of fun with my meat and a sharp implement as long as I avoid the vital areas. And there’s a surprisingly large number of excruciatingly sensitive non-vital areas on the human body—I’ve kept meat alive for over an hour, screaming itself hoarse.

In this case, I’ve inserted the knife just below the ribcage and angled it upwards. If my aim is correct—and it is—the razor-sharp steel slices through the kid’s right kidney and impales his liver.

The reaction is exactly what I’d hoped. The meat screams, his voice rising to a pitch he’d not yet achieved, as his body goes rigid with trauma and shock, gripping my engorged dick life a tight velvet fist. “Oh fuck yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” I grunt with a satisfied sigh as the teen faggot shrieks in agony. He buries his face in the floor as his entire body shudders rigidly—but I still have one hand on his cock, and I felt it pulse as I stuck him. Little fuck can say he don’t like it, but we both know the truth.

It doesn’t matter how much he screams and cries and begs, he wants this. And I’m the man to give it to him.

I leave the knife embedded in his back as I pump my erect shaft into his torn and bleeding rectum. The punk howls in pain, thrashing under my weight. It’s hot in here and I’m sweating—so is the kid, but his is a cold rank sweat forced out of his smooth young body by suffering. But I only get about a half-dozen good deep thrusts before his ass starts to go loose again.

“Jeez, you’re a worthless assfuck, you bitch,” I sneer, drowning out the boy’s wailing. “Yer ass muscle goes as limp as a flat tire in five minutes. Guess I gotta keep tighten’ you manually, huh? That what it’s gonna take to keep you workin’ my shaft right? Goddam, yer one sick-ass painpig, aintcha?”

I jerk my blade out of his back and, transferring it to my left hand, slip it into his flank, as smooth as a hot knife into butter. The vicious serrated barbs rip their way through the boywhore’s pancreas and into his spleen and again, he stiffens instinctively with massive internal organ trauma.

“Does that feel good, ya sack a’ shit?” I whisper erotically into his ear as he shudders and gasps, too far gone in shock to scream. “Yer a lucky faggot, y’know? You get to have two long hard shafts stuck in ya today, hah!” I rub my free hand down his smooth, slick back; there’s very little blood from the wound I’ve made there—most of the bleeding is internal. His lithe teenage body writhes and kicks and I can feel each shudder as it resonates in his colon and down my thick, engorged cock.

“No…” he moans shakily, his voice thick and slow with agony, “P-please…no…stop…”

“Stop?” I guffaw. “I’m just gettin’ started. Dude, I’m gonna jack up yer ass so fuckin’ bad they’re gonna have to use DNA to ID yer rottin’ meat.” I look into his eyes but the little fuck lowers his head and sobs; I can’t see his face.

“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya, you dumbass motherfucker,” I snarl and twist the knife in the wound, gouging out huge chunks of his pancreas. It gives me the reaction I want; the meat raises his head and squeals like a stuck pig—which is exactly what he is.

“Learnin’ yer lesson yet, boy?” I growl.

“F-fu-fuck you,” he moans between teeth gritted in agony.

“Wrong answer,” I say. And it is. I show him just how wrong by jerking the knife out of his side with a flourish that spatters blood on the side wall of the van. Switching the wickedly sharp blade between one hand and the other, I poke his back with the tip—just enough to break the skin and elicit a tense yelp from the cunt, but doing no real damage. Yet.

“Where’s it gonna go, boy? What part of ya is gonna be lucky enough to feel the cold sharp bite of my blade? What area of yer flesh do ya want ripped open by my serrated steel blade, you teenage fuckwad?” I make damn sure that as I’m poking him with the knife, his boyhole is getting all the attention it deserves from my dick. “Make up yer mind quick, you cumsuckin’ shit, cause yer ass is gettin’ loose again. Where do ya want me to stick ya and make ya tight again?”

The kid is groaning sluggishly; he’s bleeding internally, but not badly enough to be in imminent danger of dying. On the other hand, shock is setting in. That makes it hard to keep his attention. He needs more pain, and I need to make it drastic.

I reach around, down and behind, and place the tip of the blade against the punk’s taint, just behind his scrotum. I can feel his puckered balls—pulsating sacks of sperm, shifted into overdrive by relentless adolescent hormones. There’s a lot of things going on in a very small space in this part of the body; I had to do a bit of research to get this move down right. I wanna see how this will work on live meat.

I did practice, once, on some fuckmeat that was already dead. But that’s a story for another time. At any rate, I’m fairly certain I know what I’m doing here. With a loud grunt and a powerful flex of my large bicep, I shove the blade up into the scumbag’s body, behind his balls.

The angle of the blade is the most important thing. It slides up between the prostate and the pubic symphysis, a mass of cartilage in the front of the groin. The serrated steel slashes the kid’s vas deferens, separating his seminal vesicles from his penis but leaving the testicles intact. When I yank the blade out, tearing the wound even wider, there’s a gush of warm yellow fluid—the tip of the knife had punctured the little shit’s bladder. The muscles at the base of his cock, clenched tight due to the crushing pressure my monster hog was exerting on his prostate, had blocked the flow of his urethra at that point.

Now I’d cut an alternate path through his taint. The teen was pissing himself though the knife wound.

This is a pain that he’d never imagined existed. Soft suburban meat, learning the true meaning of suffering. His head is up, his eyes meet mine in the mirror, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at Hell. I know he can see it burning in my eyes; the expression on his face tells me so. Goddam, it’s so fuckin’ hot—he’s so cute and he’s suffering so horribly, so erotically, I just wish I could keep torturing him for eternity.

His mouth is open; he’s screaming, but no sound is coming out. The pain is too great to be released that way. “Aw, fuck yeah,” I moan in his ear, “Now you’re gettin’ it, faggot. Now you’re working my cock right. All I had to do was hurt ya in the right way to make ya nice and tight. That’s it, ya worthless homo cunt, milk my shaft.”

His body is trembling uncontrollably; his white kicks knocking against my combat boots and his bound hands still clutching uselessly at my belly fur. He’s making gasping and grunting noises as the flow of bloody piss from his mangled taint slows to a drip. Suddenly, he inhales in a great shuddering breath.

“K-kill me…” he gasps, his tormented face white and taut in the mirror. “P-please, n-no more, man…just-just kill me, dear God, just end it…” He looks at me, a silent plea for mercy—those puppy-dog eyes are begging for euthanasia.

I lean back and pull myself up onto my knees; grabbing a hank of the kid’s long hard, now darkened and slick with sweat, I drag him up too, keeping my thick engorged tool buried in his guts as I change position. When we’re both on our knees in front of the mirror, I keep one hand in his hair, pulling his head back with his chin slightly raised. The other hand still has the knife. I hold it up in front of him. This is the first time he’s seen it up close.

“Look at it, you piece of shit,” I whisper to the shuddering, sobbing teen. “That’s your blood dripping off of it. See those shreds of flesh caught in the serrations? That’s part of yer guts, brah; ain’t that hot? Sure ya wanna end the fun now? I mean, lookit how hard yer cock is, faggot.”

His brown eyes, ringed with great black circles of shock, look up at mine with an almost insane intensity. His dick was slapping rapidly against his belly in time to his frantic, pain-maddened pulse. The little shit must be bleeding heavily inside by now, but my huge dick plugging his ass kept his cock rock-hard and throbbing.

Suddenly I can feel the electric tingling in my balls, and I know I’m about to shoot my wad. “Ok motherfucker,” I growl at the dying kid, “Here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna take this long sharp blade and I’m gonna cut your throat. I’m gonna slice open the tender flesh of your neck, but when I get to your trachea—that’s the windpipe, you stupid little fuck—well, that’s made out of gristle, and I’m gonna have to saw it open. Think I’ll cut ya so I have to saw open your larynx, too—that’ll take some time, so you’ll get to enjoy it longer. Sound like fun? Fuck yeah, bitch, let’s get rockin’ and rollin’!”

Now that he’s been told what’s gonna happen to him and he can see the weapon that’s gonna be used, he changes his tune. I’ve been expecting it; even in nightmarish agony, the young ones hesitate when push comes to shove.

“Oh my fuckin’ God, no…” he whispers, a catch in his strained, pain-filled voice as he begs. “Please don’t, just make it end, I don’t wanna hurt no more, please, just make it stop…”

“Even when it stops, I’m still gonna be fuckin’ yer ass,” I jeer. “Now shaddup and die, you worthless shit.” Yanking his head back, I place the blade up against his throat and start slicing.

His flesh parts swiftly, almost eagerly, as it seems to open up at the merest touch of the knife. Blood flows from the wound—a small trickle at first but soon becoming a hot, coppery gush. The kid’s taut, lean body is rigid, tightly clenched in mortal pain.

“Oh hell yeah, cunt, milk my shaft as ya die,” I grunt, my physical pleasure ringing in my voice— he knows as his life blood jets from his throat in time to his panicked pulse that his pain and death are bringing me to orgasm. The little asswipe should appreciate the honor.

As I’d told him, I had to slow down once I hit the esophagus; it’s a stiff and rubbery piece of tissue. He starts shrieking as I begin to cut in. “Oh God no Jesus Christ help me fuckin’ stoAAAGGHHH—”

At the last second, his scream spirals up an octave as I pierce his windpipe, allowing his breath to whistle out of the hole I’ve cut in his throat. The thrashing teen can’t scream anymore; all he can do is make thick gargling sounds as he coughs up his own blood.

His body is still so stiff and hard it’s quivering; his ass has my dick in a deathgrip, squeezing it and jerking it like it’s deliberately trying to make me cum. His fingers are clutching at my hard flat abs in agony, unable to get a purchase on my skin, slick with sweat. All he can do is grasp at my wiry body fur. His smooth, firm legs are kicking and shuddering, the Adidas Top Tens knocking against my black combat boots.

I’ve got a teenaged boy dying in horrible pain in my arms and on my cock and it feels fuckin’ fantastic.

I toss the knife down; I don’t need it any more. He’s bleeding heavily from his throat but I’ve managed to do no more than nick either the jugular vein or the carotid artery—which means he’s gonna remain conscious for maybe another forty-five seconds before his heart starts going into arrhythmia from overwhelming blood loss.

I’m still gripping a handful of his hair, more to keep him upright than anything else. I put my free hand to good use—reaching around his sweaty, heaving torso, I grab his thick cock, still amazingly erect, and start jacking him.

“C’mon, motherfucker, just fuckin’ die,” I whisper in his ear as he trembles and gargles his blood. “You want this. Deep inside, you needed a man to fuck you and put you down like the piece of shit you are. I’m about to blow, cunt. Last thing yer gonna feel in your useless faggot life is my hot manseed hosin’ down yer guts—”

He doesn’t give me a chance to finish. His body jerks violently in my arms and I can feel a powerful throbbing spasm in his dick. It erupts in a geyser of teen boycum, sending a jet of sperm up almost to the roof of the van before falling back to spatter viscously on the mirror.

I can’t control it anymore; the pressure in my balls is too intense. Howling and cursing, I pump my spunk up the meat’s ass. I’m still holding the kid’s dick; I jerk it and crank it mercilessly. As powerful as my ejaculations are, I’m still able to notice something in the mirror—a puddle of milky fluid under the meat’s scrote.

It takes me a minute to realize that I’d severed the kid’s vas deferens when I jammed my blade into his taint; the seminal vesicles were behind the cut, and they produce the fluid in semen.

The kid wasn’t just cumming outta his dick, he was cumming outta the hole I’d sliced in him.

The meat is gone. His eyes have rolled back into his head and his body jerks as he strains to breathe, air wheezing sickeningly through the gash in his windpipe. Pearly beads of cum are oozing from his hard cock as I let him go, the rank sweaty boymeat slumping lifelessly to the floor. One of his legs twitches randomly, his hightop sneaker scuffling momentarily on the Astroturf, then he’s still.

T-Money is cashed out.

I pull out and roll over on my back. Fuck, that was so fuckin’ good. I just need a little nap…

It’s still warm in the van when I wake up, and the sun is still up, so I haven’t been asleep for long. I grab the shredded remains of the punk’s Nirvana shirt and use it to brush off the dried smears of blood on my chest from the boy’s back wounds. He’s still laying on the AstroTurf, hunched over with his ass in the air, his legs spread with his kicks splayed out, forming a perfect V leading to his fuckhole. His face is buried in the floor; his long sandy blond hair fanned out around his head.

From the rear, I can see that the dead kid’s taint is completely crusted with dried cum—some of his that leaked from the hole I’d cut and the rest is mine, leaked from his torn asshole.

Goddam, I’m hard again.

I’ve already reamed out the meat’s ass; I need a new hole to fuck. I give the corpse a good hard kick, my boot making contact with its belly and flip it over onto its back. From here I can see the pale face and blue lips, the gruesome slash that opened the throat, exposing the severed trachea—

—a nice firm hole just waiting for my shaft. Fuck yeah.

I squat over the dead boy’s head, facing his feet, and feed my erect tool into the mangled esophagus. The flesh is still warm and pliant, almost moist, and it seems to cling to my thick, throbbing rod. I sit on the corpse’s face and throatfuck it for another seven or eight minutes, my hands fondling the smooth limp body. The dead punk jerks with every pump of my hog, his Adidas kicks scraping as his legs twitch.

This time, I have no warning. Suddenly, I find myself hunched over in orgasmic spasm, shooting a load down the kid’s windpipe and into his lungs. I remain straddling the corpse for another couple of minutes, regaining my breath, before I pull my dick back out of the cut throat. Standing up, I pull up my jeans and tuck my shaft back into ‘em.

Time to dump the meat. I open the rear doors, flooding the interior with the bright golden light of late-afternoon summer. The drainage ditch is only a yard away, beyond the foot-high guardrail. The ditch is deep, too; it’s a good fifteen feet to the bottom.

The kid is laying splayed on his back, his hands still bound behind him, naked but for his kicks. I’m still not satisfied. I owned this little motherfucker, and I want everyone to know it. And then an idea comes to me.

I grab the knife in one hand and the meat’s scrotum in the other and start cutting. It takes less than sixty seconds to completely remove the dead fag’s cock and balls. I bend over the corpse and grin. “Stupid little homo, all ya wanted was some beer. Hope it was worth it.”

Then I shove the severed genitalia into the throat wound, tucking the kid’s cock into his trachea, where it slid in smoothly on a lube of my cum. If they find him before he rots, they’ll find him choking on his own dick.

I drag the meat out and over the guardrail, dropping it unceremoniously and watching it tumble down the embankment into the trickle of muddy water at the bottom. I return to the van and gather up the remains of the clothing, then toss them over the rail as well. I notice that one of the slut’s Adidas sneakers had evidently caught on the rail and been jerked off; it was sitting upright at the edge of the concrete.

I left it there and climbed into the van. Fifteen minutes later, I was merging onto the highway, heading for a DIY car wash over on Third that I’d used before; I still needed to hoes out the back of the van. Just as I entered the highway, I heard a rattling sound from the floorboards on the passenger side. I shot a quick glimpse over there and realized I still had the fuckmeat’s skateboard.

It was probably dangerous to unbuckle my seatbelt and lunge across the cab, keeping one hand on the wheel, but I managed to snag the board without any major repercussions. Just as I reached my exit, I rolled down the window and tossed the skateboard out onto the highway. I kept an eye on it in my rearview mirror as I headed down the exit ramp; it bounced across two lanes before being run over by a semi. It was destroyed, crushed to pieces.

It makes me feel even better. I’m still tingling with afterglow as go to wash out my killing pit.

The bar wasn’t just dark and smoky; it was also small and fairly crowded. The last attribute, at least was good. It expanded the range of prey.

The Trucker was on the hunt. He had a week and a half’s worth of seed swelling his already-enormous ballsack; he needed to unload so badly it fucking hurt.

And, of course, the only way to do that was to make someone else hurt even worse.

It had been a long, hard slog—a combination of tight delivery schedules and nasty weather across the country; the Trucker had plowed through snow, sleet, torrential rains, and, worst of all, ice. He was far enough south at the moment not to worry about ice, though, and the weather was nice. It was time for a release; it was time for someone to gag, choke and die on his cock.

The highway had been cut through an older part of town; the truck stop was adjacent to what appeared to be a low-rent and potentially rough neighborhood. Parking at the far end of the small lot, the Trucker found his cab was less than a hundred feet from the closest rig; not ideal in case he needed a little privacy later on. Using an app he’d put on his phone for the purpose, he located the closest gay bar.

Surprisingly, it was only three blocks east of his location. It was called Mack’s.

Once there, he’d been disappointed by how small the place was—and how nasty; it really was a dive bar—but liked the selection of meat on display. He was also disappointed by the service. It seemed to take fifteen minutes just to get a beer. “What’s the problem here?” he gruffly asked the bartender, once his brew finally arrived. The latter, a broad, hairy-chested young man sporting nothing but a leather vest above the waist, started and flushed at the commanding tone of the handsome stranger across from him. He was beautiful, but for some reason, the Trucker wasn’t into him.

Even after getting lucky with a cute boy at closing, he had no idea how truly lucky he got that night.

“S-sorry, sir,” he stammered, grinning lopsidedly, feeling his dick swell unaccountably. “We’re short-handed tonight.” Leaning forward, he whispered confidentially, “Bitch’s name was Robbie—he was our barback. Little twink whore who used to take it up the ass back here where he though no one’d see him. Fucker met the wrong dude after he left here; got himself raped and strangled on the way home.”

The Trucker snorted contemptuously. As he turned away from the bar to survey the fuckmeat on offer, the bartender muttered vindictively under his breath, “Selfish cunt, leavin’ us in the lurch. Hope it hurt like fuck…”

It was helpful to know that someone else had successfully tracked down and slaughtered meat from here; it told the Trucker two things. First that this place was evidently a good hunting ground—and second, that he needed to be more cautious than usual. After all, if some cunt got offed leaving this place, it could be staked out. Glancing around, the Trucker kinda doubted that the cops would bother looking too hard for the killer of some low-life faggot hanging out in this dive; still, he’d take no extraordinary chances tonight.

The serial killer squinted his cold eyes as he tried to peer into the murky depths—such as they were—of the bar. There was a lot of fuckmeat available, but none of it seemed to be worth the effort. At least a third of the crowd were hustlers; the Trucker had no objections at all to banging and wasting a whore, but these cunts were so strung-out and skanky, the alpha almost wished he had a ten-foot pole with which not to touch them.

That was when he heard a voice behind him; he’d been facing the back of the building, not the entrance, so he didn’t realize someone had entered and approached the bar next to him. “Just-just a Bud, man,” it said tentatively, the youthful, shy voice instantly intriguing the Trucker. He turned casually and took in the view.

The guy next to him couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, but the red cadet cap on his head, the brow pulled low over his eyes made his specific age hard to determine. That was a clue, right there—the kid was on the down-low. He was ashamed to be in here; he didn’t want to be recognized. That was good. Made him harder to ID afterwards.

What part of the face was visible below the cap revealed a large nose with a swelling on the bridge, a souvenir of a past break. The full, vulnerable lips were surrounded by a patchy golden fuzz spread across the boy’s cheeks. His hard, muscled torso would have been intimidating had the Trucker not been obviously better-built and more powerful. It was displayed very well by a navy-blue t-shirt that looked sprayed on; tight as it was, his jeans looked even tighter. The latter were a slightly lighter shade of blue—relatively new, but well worn, slightly stained, and torn across the left thigh, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of smooth flesh.

On his feet, the youth sported a pair of genuine shitkickers; pointy-toed boots of raw leather, worn to the texture of suede, the heels and soles replaced at least once. They seemed to go with the large oval belt buckle clasping closed the thick dark leather strap circling the boy’s narrow waist.

At that moment, the boy noticed the Trucker. While his cap made his age difficult to figure out, the expression on his face made his emotion easy as hell to figure out. The hard-bodied youth was in a state of awed lust.

The Trucker was an alpha stud and dressed to show it; his outfit was similar to the kid’s, but gave greater emphasis to the killer’s muscle-bound physique. He wore his trucker’s cap, its brim, like the boy’s was pulled down. Under a bomber jacket of distressed brown leather, he was wrapped in a far-too-tight white t-shirt. The thin cotton was stretched to such an extreme that the V of wiry fur on his chest was clearly visible from its widest expanse across the sadist’s broad pecs down to where it narrowed into a dark treasure trail that vanished below the waistband of the soft, frayed jeans that clung so closely to his bulging thighs that they looked sprayed on. The cuffs of the jeans were tucked into a pair of Ariat Workhog boots, basic brown leather pull-ons with a thick rubber tread.

The boy gaped at the Trucker open-mouthed and took an instinctive step backward, where he made contact with a post. Jerking forward, he bumped into the Trucker; startled, he looked up at the erotic killer’s cold, handsome face, shadowed by a dark stubble. Eyes a startling shade of emerald glanced up as the youth’s gold-stubbled cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “S-sorry, man, I-I just…it was an accident…” he trailed off shamefacedly.

Whatever humiliation or shyness he may have felt, though, it did nothing to dispel his lust. “I-I’m Derek. What ya looking for tonight?”

The Trucker stared down at the punk without speaking, letting the silence draw out uncomfortably. The kid—Derek—cleared his throat and had started blushing again before the hulking alpha spoke.

“I’m looking for boymeat to stick my dick into,” the Trucker said even in a deep baritone growl that made Derek shudder in sexual anticipation.

The punk’s desire was obvious; a dark circle the size of a quarter was slowly expanding six inches down his right thigh where the thick ridge in his jeans indicated his dick ended. The homo was already oozing form his cock, just from looking at the Trucker in the dim chaos that happens in gay bars an hour before closing. The Trucker smirked, his lips twisting cruelly on his handsome, masterful face.

“You’ll do,” the Trucker said dismissively, “Gotta place I can fuck ya?”

Derek gulp so violently it looked like he was trying to swallow a golf ball. “Y-yeah man,” he gasped, somewhat breathlessly, “I gotta place in an SRO around the corner. Company I work for rented it; see, I’m from outta town and they—”

“Ok, where is it?” the Trucker asked curtly, cutting the excited kid off.

“Uh—around the corner to the right, a coupla blocks down…”

“Ok, bitch, go wait for me at the corner. Gotta go drain my hog.”

With that, the Trucker turned abruptly away, heading to the bathroom. Still blinking and gulping with lust, Derek headed for the door, still stunned at his luck. Holy fucking shit, that stud was gonna cum in his ass tonight; he could scarcely believe his luck.

Once outside, he was hit by a sudden breeze, making him regret he’d left his jacket in his room; first glancing down at his phone, Derek saw that it was a quarter past one on Saturday morning, then, looking up, saw that the overcast sky had cleared—a cold front had come through.

Things were gonna be cooling off overnight, he thought, heading towards the appointed corner for the rendezvous—never realizing that one of those things was gonna be his corpse.

Derek’s thick bootheels echoed loudly on the empty pavement; as full as the bar was, there was no one out here. Literally no one—he couldn’t even see anyone at the corner. Fearing that the huge, muscle-bound stud had found someone better and bailed on him, the young man hurried his steps.

Rounding the corner, he saw the hot alpha standing about halfway down the block; Derek’s relief was so great that he found himself babbling as he approached the dude. “Hey, man,” he called out, “I’m in the fourth building down on the right. Not my real place, a’course; I’m in town on a construction job. Company I work for put us up in this shitty fleabag…”

The Trucker maintained an icy silence on the way to the run-down building, letting the boymeat pour out his story. It didn’t matter; what mattered what getting the motherfucker’s ass to grip the Trucker’s enormous tool, and that meant torturing and killing this young man.

Kid was well-built, though. Looked tough—not jacked, but strong and sinewy. Cunt was gonna take some killin’…

The building turned out to be a seven-story walkup; the kid’s room was on the sixth floor. The climb sapped some of Derek’s enthusiasm—well, at any rate, it shut him up until they actually reached the right floor.

The landing was halfway down a single corridor running the length of the building; it was lined with doors on each side. At the far left end, a flickering exit sign over a window hinted at the presence of a fire escape beyond. Derek indicated the battered door at the far right end. “That’s the bathroom, dude, if ya need to go—like I said, it’s SRO. Don’t even have a private bathroom.”

Derek’s room was to the left, away from the bathroom; in fact, it was the next-to-last on the end, to the right, overlooking the rear of the building. Room 602.

The room was tiny, no more than two hundred square feet, if that. To the right was a double bed, frame and mattress only. The fitted sheet was still in place but the flat sheet and a thin microfiber blanket were tangled on top, with a single pillow tossed in.

To the immediate left of the door was a small closet; its door was closed, but just beyond it was an armchair with a pair of stained jeans draped over it. On top of the jeans sat a neon-yellow hardhat. Under the chair was what looked like a wadded-up t-shirt, nest to another pair of workboots—lace-up and very soiled. Beyond the chair, in the far corner, was a white porcelain pedestal sink, badly chipped, with rust stains trailing from the tap. Above the sink, a plastic medicine cabinet with a mirrored door—also chipped—had been tacked unsteadily to the wall. The far wall, to the left of the bed, had a decent sized window with a three-drawer dresser under it.

The window seemed to be painted shut, which was unfortunate—the room was stiflingly hot. A tiny steam radiator next to the sink was giving off visible waves of heat.

“Wow,” Derek said as they entered the room, “Fuck. Sorry about the temperature, man, I don’t control the heat and I can’t open the fucking window. Oh, and the clothes—haven’t made it to the laundry yet, heh.” So saying, the buff young man opened the closet door. Tossing his cap onto the chair, he peeled his blue t-shirt off of his smooth, lithe torso, balled up it and threw it in.

Closing the door, he turned back to the Trucker, revealing strawberry-blond hair, wide blue eyes, a long straight nose and full, almost pouting lips. Below the nose, a dirty blond mustache, barely more than peach fuzz, covered his upper lip. His chest was broad and his pectorals large; even though the Trucker was taller and much more powerful, Derek had the muscled body of a construction worker.

Standing in front of the towering alpha he’d brought home, the kid was well aware that he was still physically outclassed by the anonymous stud. How badly outclassed he truly was did not become clear to him until later.

Slipping off his jacket, the Trucker handed it to Derek. “Here, boy, hang it up,” he demanded, “And treat it right or I’ll take the damage outta yer hide.” The punk shuddered with pleasure at the deep tone of command in the Trucker’s voice; it made his cock throb. The wet spot on his jeans continued to grow.

The Trucker noticed and grinned. This pig was already primed. As the boy searched for an appropriate hanger for the leather bomber jacket, the older man quickly removed his own cap and t-shirt, placing them on the small dresser. He’d already retrieved his cigarettes and lit one up by the time Derek came out and closed the closet door.

The boy flinched as if he’d been struck; his jaw fell open with shock. “I-I just—”

“NOW, goddammit! Or I’ll fuckin’ rip those jeans off with my bare hands!”

Leaning against the wall, Derek bent one leg and slowly reached down to slip the well-worn boot off, his foot encased in a white tube sock inside. He never took his eyes off the Trucker, entranced with the alpha’s toned, furry chest, glistening with sweat, with a gleaming pair of dogtags dead center. The hard, muscled physique, the intimidating, threating manner—it all turned the closeted bottom pig on. He had to obey; his pulsing dick insisted on it.

As the well-built youth unbuttoned the waistband of his jeans, the Trucker took another drag from his Marlboro and exhaled. Letting the smoke hang lazily in the humid, overheated air, his cold eyes appraised Derek’s smooth, strong body. The kid didn’t need to work out; it was part of his daily job, and it showed.

Gearing up his courage, the kid tried another request. “Man, go gentle with me, willya? See, none of the dudes I work with know that I—well, that I…”

“That yer a cumsuckin’ faggot who want manmeat shoved up his ass?” the Trucker sneered.

Derek swallowed and dropped his jeans. Nude but for the pair of white tube socks that went almost to his knees, the boy stood revealed to the alpha stud, including his thick fat cock—six inches of oozing dick already jutting proudly from a curly nest of sand-colored pubes.

Even as the head of his shaft swung free, drizzling precum on the floor, Derek was explaining himself. “Well, it’s just that…I, I really don’t have much experience…” he cleared his throat nervously, “I—I just don’ wanna make too much noise, y’know?”

The Trucker said nothing in reply; he just unzipped his fly and pulled his cock out. As usual, it took a bit to free the entire rod from its tight denim confines; Derek’s eyes got wider and wider as more dick kept coming out. He opened his mouth to protest, but couldn’t get anything coherent out.

“Quit oinkin’, pigboy—get over here,” the older man snapped. Derek moved forward, stepping out of the jeans that were on the floor around his ankles. The sexy young laborer, his smooth skin glittering with beads of sweat, reached out and ran his fingers across the Trucker’s hubcap pecs, feeling the older stud’s chest fur rasp in his hands like steel wool.

Annoyed, the Trucker knocked his hands away just as they reached the dogtags. Instead of taking the hint, the lust-fueled youth placed his hands on the alpha’s biceps and fondled them as the bulged. He didn’t get long to enjoy them, though.

“I didn’t tell ya you could touch me, cunt, did I?” the Trucker growled and backhanded Derek across the face—not hard; just enough to split his lip.

Holding his face, the punk fell to the floor, stunned. He wanted rough sex from a rough top; he didn’t mind getting slapped around some—but how the fuck was he gonna explain this in the morning? He’d have to tell the rest of the crew he’d gotten mugged…

“Lick my boots, ya fuckin’ homo!” The command slashed through Derek’s hormone-muddled mind; his dick swelled in response—and again, his bottom pig nature took over. Before he’d followed his idea to its logical excuse of mugging, his tongue was scraping across the raw leather of the dominant hunk’s workboots.

Closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, he slowly worked his way along the left boot. Suddenly, his head was clamped in a crushing grip and pulled up. “Enough, slut; get yer fag face to work on the other!” This time, though, the Trucker took pleasure in grinding the boy’s face into the rough surface of the upper. Derek cried out, his hands grasping upwards, reaching around the top’s massive thighs, trying to free himself from the aggressive manhandling. It felt like he was trying to uproot a thickly-knotted tree trunk, and the result was identical.

Then he was jerked backwards so fast he got dizzy. “Get on my dick, faggot!” the Trucker grunted—and suddenly Derek found his mouth full of manmeat; his already-burning cheeks swelling as the alpha’s enormous, vein-wrapped hog was crammed down his throat, sliding down on a lube of streaming precum. “Yeah, boy!” the aggressive sadist jeered, “Yer eyes waterin’ yet, huh? Gag on my fuckin’ cock, ya homo piece of shit!”

On his knees with his own erect cock slapping against his belly, Derek clutched frantically at the Trucker’s boots, trying to hold on as the cruel hard-bodied top throatfucked him brutally. At one point, he reached up and grabbed the Trucker’s wrists in an attempt to pry himself away from the crushing grip on his head.

And yes, his eyes were watering, badly. They were leaking almost as much as his dick; in fact, his whole face was leaking as he gagged and coughed up white foamy drool around the enormous, vein-wrapped shaft that was reaming his esophagus. He couldn’t breathe right; at the tempo he was being skullfucked, he couldn’t catch his breath. He was choking—in the dim, buzzing, background, he could hear the alpha’s malign chuckles…

Then, suddenly, he was free. The huge tube of hard, throbbing flesh was withdrawn from his throat and Derek was able to take a deep breath that instantly led to a wracking fit of coughing. He crouched on the floor, hacking and drooling onto the Trucker’s boots.

By this point, Derek had recovered enough to speak. “M-man, I d-don’t do th-this much,” he coughed. ‘My homies on the crew don’t know I like dick—they’d probably beat the shit outta me if they found out.”

The Trucker’s grin grew even more sharklike. “Get up on that bed, cocksucker and put yer ass up in the air. Time to christen your shitty little room, boy. Get up there, cunt; I’m gonna ream yer ass like I’m drillin’ for oil!”

Lust and anxiety flowed through the well-built young construction worker; this stud’s words were making him so hard it hurt—but he knew that that pain was nothing compared to what he’d endure when the alpha shoved that massive hog up his tender ass. “D-dude, I…I dunno, man—I dunno if I can keep quiet if you stick that thing in me…”

“Don’t worry, bitch,” the Trucker said steadily, “I’ll make sure you don’t make too much noise. I got ways of keepin’ my fucktoys quiet.” As Derek climbed onto the bed and swept aside the rumpled bedding, the Trucker noticed a power strip on the floor near the head of the bed with a phone charger plugged into it. He noted its location just before the eager young pig shoved the pillows off onto it.

Once the bed was clear of everything but the fitted sheet, Derek moved to the center. Crouching on his hands and knees, he raised his ass in the air, like a cat, presenting himself for mounting. “Go slow stickin’ it in, dude,” he said hoarsely, wriggling the smooth globes of his bubble butt, letting the dim light from the wall sconce shimmer on the barely-visible peach fuzz.

Blushing furiously, the muscled youth quickly scrambled off the bed. Sitting at the foot of the mattress, the Trucker raised his left leg, shoving his boot at the punk. Derek grabbed the rough leather upper of the Ariat Workhog boot, still moist with his own saliva, and jerked, hard.

With an angry grunt, the Trucker swung up his right foot, kicking the boy, planting his steel toe in Derek’s ribcage—not hard enough to do any real damage, but more than enough to bruise the kid’s tender flesh and cause him pain.

Derek knelt on the scarred wood floor, head down. He was terrified that the Trucker’s deep, commanding bass had penetrated the thin walls and woken Angelo in the next room. Fuck, if Angelo heard this, everyone would know…

…after all, the blue collar bottom had already found that the top’s voice had penetrated to the root of his cock. It was pulsing even faster and oozing even more—especially when the Trucker barked again.

“Y-yessir,” Derek whispered, trembling with a combination of fear and lust. The mixture was not unfamiliar to a closeted faggot whose every sexual encounter was tainted with fear of exposure, but never as intense as now. Gingerly, he reached out and grasped the Trucker’s boot.

It took him a couple of minutes to gently remove both of them. Once he did, the Trucker stood, looming over the working-class stud. He unfastened the button on the waistband of his jeans before speaking. “Pull ‘em down, bitch.”

Derek obeyed immediately, grasping the rough denim in his hands and jerking down, feeling the fur on the alpha’s legs brushing against sensitive undersides of his forearms. When they reached the ground and the Trucker stepped out of them, the older man deliberately twisted his waist so that his enormous cock smacked the boy in the face, streaking his handsome, youthful face with precum.

Again, Derek’s compliance was instinctual—as was the sexual thrill that ran through him at the taunts from the incredibly well-built top. No one had ever abused him like this—not this viciously, at any rate—and he didn’t understand his own physical response.

Nor did he try to. All he consciously knew was that this hulking stud scared the shit outta him—and that he’d never wanted another dude up his ass so bad. He scurried eagerly onto the bed.

Then the boy rolled onto his back and spread his legs in the air, his hands gripping the back of his knees for support. The Trucker moved to the foot of the bed; from here, he had a perfectly-aligned view of the kid’s pink, pulsating fuckhole. Directly above was the youth’s large, puckered scrotum, hanging down from a bush of sandy hair. Rising above all this, Derek’s thick cock stood erect and oozing between his firm, smooth thighs.

Nude except for his calf-high white tube socks—just like the kid—the Trucker positioned himself on the bed, just between the boy’s inner thighs. He pressed the huge, dripping head of his cock against Derek’s trembling sphincter, pushing forward with very slight pressure. The closeted slut felt it and moan faintly.

“Gimme yer phone charger,” the Trucker demanded abruptly.

Derek raised his head and blinked in confusion. “My what?”

“Yer charger, ya stupid fag—on the floor beside you. Reach down and grab it and hand it to me now or I’m gonna fuck you up.”

It was an awkward angle for Derek to reach while still lying on his back, but he knew he had to obey the commanding top. Contorting his hard, buff body, the young stud managed to grasp the cord and yank it free from the power strip. With a relieved grunt, he straightened and centered himself back on the mattress, tossing the cord at the Trucker, who caught it and laid it to the side, within easy reach.

“Dude, what’s that for? You gonna tie me up? I ain’t never—”

The kid didn’t manage to finish before the Trucker lunged forward and bitchslapped him hard across the face. Derek gasped as his head rocketed to the side. “Worthless piece a’ shit!” the Trucker snarled. “I told ya to hand it to me, cocksucker, not throw it at me! You don’t know yer place, boy. Time I taught it to ya.” With that, he swept his strong arm the other direction, backhanding Derek hard enough to split his lower lip.

The once-eager whelp cried out and clutched his face. Withdrawing one hand, he looked at the blood on it from his lip. “Fuck, man, what are ya doin’?! I gotta work in the fuckin’ mornin’, dude, I can’t go lookin’ like I rolled in a goddam alley! Stop hittin’—”

His protest was crushed into a wheezing grunt as the Trucker punched him in the solar plexus.

For thirty seconds, Derek thought he was dying. He couldn’t breathe. No matter what he did, he couldn’t inhale. When he finally could, he came up off the bed with a loud frantic gasp, only to be met by another line-drive blow from his assailant. The Trucker’s fist slammed into the kid’s hard, broad pec on the left side with a loud smacking sound. The violent impact knocked the flailing punk back down flat on the bed.

“Yeah, keep fightin’ me, ya stupid motherfucker,” the Trucker sneered, “That’s gonna feel so fuckin’ good on my tool.” Grabbing Derek around his narrow waist, he rammed the cunt’s ass all the way down on his dick like a sex toy. His shaft ground so deeply into the youth’s colon that their pubic hairs entwined.

Derek had been unprepared—not that he could have actually prepared himself for that massive rod, but his entire body had clenched up during the assault, including his sphincter. The alpha’s cock almost literally tore him a new asshole, splitting the rectal lining excruciatingly on the way in.

The Trucker could see it in the bitch’s eyes before it actually happened. “Keep quiet and take my dick, whore, or I’ll hurt you so fuckin’ bad, ya useless—”

Derek squealed like a pig getting its throat cut—as the sadistic alpha had known he would.

“I warned ya, meat,” the Trucker chuckled with evil glee, “Gotta learn to obey me, asswipe, so here’s yer first lesson.” This was accompanied by a roundhouse punch straight from the shoulder.

The blow connected with Derek’s jaw, snapping it like a wishbone. The lesson was well-learned; the boy’s ability to scream was severely hampered by the agonizing pain of trying to open his mouth. The punk’s large dark eyes were wide and tear filled; the uncomprehending expression on his face show how stunned he was by the sudden, brutal attack.

The Trucker laughed aloud as he felt the blow reverberate along the punk’s buff, taut body, right down through his guts to his rectum. “Fuck, I could feel that one in my cock,” he sneered cruelly, “Ya musta really liked that, huh? Yeah? Then yer just gonna fuckin’ love what else I got planned for ya, homo fuckmeat!”

Derek snapped into a fight-or-flight mode; between his broken jaw and torn colon, his body issued an instinctive directive to get away. From stunned paralysis, the hard-bodied construction worker exploded into frenetic flailing, like a trapped animal.

The Trucker had expected a burst of feral violence at some point—more than one, most likely—but despite his experience, this one took him by surprise. The meat’s hands came up scrambling and clawing like a cat; the alpha managed to jerk his head up out of reach, but the boy’s hands raked viciously across his torso, scraping his rough, wiry chest hair, even as his smooth but strong legs drew up, trying to get his up knees under his assailant and push him off.

It was a bad move. Derek had a fantastic build thanks to his employment—one of the reasons he’d never had any real problems in any of his previous anonymous hookups was that he was obviously strong enough to take care of himself—but he was no match for the Trucker. All he’d succeeded in doing was pissing off the older and much more powerful alpha.

“Worthless faggot,” the Trucker grunted, catching the kid’s right arm as it came up against his chest. In a single, swift motion, the highly-experienced sadist wrapped his left arm around the boy’s right, and jerking violently enough to cause his massive bicep to flex and bulge, the Trucker bent the cunt’s elbow backwards at a forty-five degree angle. There was a loud cracking, popping sound as the joint was destroyed, accompanied by a high-pitched squealing sound from the agonized fuckpig.

Poor Derek still couldn’t open his mouth to scream. Some normal part of the unfortunate punk was terrified; he wasn’t going to be able to call for help. Some closeted part of him was glad that no one would hear his shame.

And way down deep, some pig part of him reveled in it, and made his dick even harder.

The Trucker noticed.

“Yeah, I thought so,” he muttered contemptuously as he reached down and picked up the phone charger, leaning back in such a way that his enormous cock probed even further into his victim’s intestines. Wrapping the cord around his left hand and grabbing the transformer in the right he pulled them apart easily. He was just about to toss the transformer to the side when Derek’s low, keening moans suddenly escalated in pitch. The punk was coming out of his semi-conscious state and responding to the pain.

Despite the red fog of agony clouding his mind, Derek heard and understood every word. He couldn’t understand what had happened; all he’d done was sneak out to the local gay bar to he could get a good buttfuck on the DL. He was getting it all right, but it came at a terrible and utterly unexpected price. Even though he understood the threat in the Trucker’s voice, he couldn’t control his reaction to the nightmarish pain. His screech got louder…

…until it was halted by a loud, wet, crunchy smack, the sound of the Trucker smashing his nose to a pulp, the older man’s fist still gripping the transformer from the cord. Derek, grunting and gurgling, bit through his tongue on impact, as some lucid part of his mind noted the way his own hard dick was slapping moistly against his torturer’s furry, ripped belly. Opening his swollen eyes, the naïve youth dazed and blurred vision focused on the glittering reflection of dogtags in front of his face, dancing with the alpha’s thrusts. Somehow, the hypnotic jerking glint, coinciding as it did with the sensation of excruciating impalement, made him sink down and accept the pain as inevitable.

This time, his left cheekbone snapped. The boy coughed up spit, bloody from his bitten tongue, that ran down his faintly-stubbled cheek. His body thrashed at the impact, but fell back limply afterwards.

“Holy fuckin’ shit, you really are a worthless waste of fuckmeat,” the Trucker muttered ominously. “Hard-bodied little faggot twink like you shouldn’t be worn out this fast.” Every punch he’d thrown had been with the cord’s transformer adding heft to his already-large fist; he now tossed it aside and instead the cord itself was wrapped around both hands, leaving about eighteen inches between. “I had plans, asswipe. I was gonna do things to ya you couldn’t’a dreamed of in yer worst fuckin’ nightmares. I was gonna put you in pain so bad the thought of escaping it into death alone woulda made ya cum. Now, I’m just gonna put ya down like a dog. I’m gonna make those firm thrashing muscles of yers into dead twitchin’ meat, just so yer convulsions jack me off. Hear me, ya useless cunt? Time to die.”

Leaning forward, he wrapped the cord around Derek’s throat and pulled it tight and hard, sinking it deeply into the punk’s neck. This was no playful squeeze; the kid’s esophagus was instantly crushed shut, cutting off his air immediately.

Derek’s mental retreat from pain had been successful; even as his body responded, his mind had been protected. The instant cessation of oxygen broke the spell; the sudden wave of agony—still inexplicable mixed with lust—would have put him into shock had not the basic need to survive suddenly become imperative.

So he had to endure his pounded, smashed face. He had to endure the searing, slashing pain from the huge, vein-wrapped cock rammed deep into his guts. He had to endure the grinding, glassy pain in his elbow that made his right arm useless. And now, he was having to endure strangulation. He had to get away. Somehow, he had to get up off this dude’s dick and out of this room. It didn’t matter what the guys on the crew thought, they could laugh at him, they could spit at him, they could piss on him, as long as they saved him from this psycho…

Giving the cord another jerk, he managed to compress the meat’s neck by another inch and a half in circumference. The appearance was almost grotesque as the youth’s smooth skin puckered and wrinkled at the point that the cord had sunk in; the cord itself was no longer visible.

Beneath the alpha, the buff young construction worker was already starting to writhe and sweat in extreme bodily distress. The Trucker himself, already exuding heady mansweat from the effort involved in snuffing strong young meat, found his victim’s smooth body sliding around under him as if lubed. The boy’s cock felt like a long hot iron rod, pressed between the grunting, shuddering male bodies.

Derek was sinking slowly into brain death but wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t process his killer’s taunts. In despair, he realized that it was true—he was gonna be found raped to death if he didn’t manage to get out of this…

A last spark of lust for life flared up in the dick-filled musclemeat. His firm, smooth legs wrapped around his assailant’s thrusting waist and his left arm batted desperately but ineffectually at the Trucker’s head. But it was too little, too late, and the face of the dying fuckmeat made it obvious. The cunt’s tongue, black and swollen, had painfully pushed aside the broken jaw and was protruding with a fount of foamy drool that cascaded down his chin. The large dark eyes bulged from the sockets, the expression of terror amplified by the petechial hemorrhages that stained the whites red.

“Almost there, faggot,” the Trucker muttered as he hunched over and pressed his heavy, hard body down on the thrashing youth. “Work it out, homo, work the cum outta my shaft. Here, meat, time to go. Time to die, faggot.”

With a loud grunt, the powerful alpha tightened his arms to the point that veins popped out on his bugling muscles. He pulled so hard that the cord actually snapped, but before it did, there was a distinct crunching sound as the cumsucker’s esophagus collapsed. His airway was permanently blocked by a mass of shattered cartilage.

The last flicker of Derek’s consciousness heard and felt his throat getting crushed. Then his eyes rolled back and the death throes started. All the Trucker had to do was grab hold of the corpse and ride it like a bucking bronco.

The dead kid was strong and healthy; his balls were full. As he died, he emptied them all over his killer, himself and the bed. For every boiling spurt of seed the Trucker unloaded into the meat’s guts, the meat responded with a thick, ropy jet that splattered into the alpha’s chest fur, or shot between them to splash against the wall, viscous pearly drops raining back down onto the entwined males.

It seemed to take several minutes, filling the room with gasping and grunting, the sounds of bodies slapping together, the smell of sweat and seed and lust. The alpha held onto the meat until his scrotum was empty and he’d filled the dead kid with spunk.

With a quick movement, he pulled out of the corpse and got off the bed. Reaching for his smokes, he lit one up and looked down at the body. Derek was lying on his back with his legs apart. At some point in his death struggle, he’d kicked off his left sock; his right one was still on but twisted down to the ankle. Between the splayed legs a trickle of bloody semen leaked from his mangled ass. The youth’s hard, smooth body, covered with glistening sweat, trembled violently on the bed, each spasm forcing another bead of cum from the slowly-softening cock.

Up to the neck, the body looked like that of a sleeping stud—ignoring the grotesque angle of the right arm—but halfway up, the throat was constricted to a gruesome point. Above that point, the resemblance to the attractive young construction worker who’d slunk furtively into the bar an hour ago was utter non-existent. His face was puffy and dark; his head looked—appropriately enough—like a punching bag.

Grinning, the Trucker knocked his ash into the sink in the corner, the smoke adding to the steamy haziness, as he gloated over his latest kill. Stupid little faggot. Taking another drag, he felt his amused contempt grow—and his cock. Striding over to the warm, soft shuddering boymeat, the Trucker plunged his still-erect shaft into the meat’s mouth. The broken jaw helped him shove the swollen tongue aside with his pulsing tube of manflesh, his precum acting as lube as he forced his way into the dead fag’s throat.

Taking one last hit off his cigarette, he ground it out on the meat’s forehead, grasping the corpse by its ruined throat as he skullfucked it. Still keyed up after the snuff, it only took about a dozen strokes of his shaft, probing the mangled windpipe until his swollen purple head fitted snugly into the shattered remains of his larynx, spat another hot thick wad. The Trucker grunted deeply as a second and third load shot from him, backing up in the enclosed space until it flooded out the youth’s nostrils. With one last gasp, the powerful alpha let his powerful body collapse onto the dead boy as he came, feeling the youth’s deathload smearing onto his chest.

Finally, spent, the older man withdrew from the twitching corpse, now completely filled with his rank manseed. Feeling the need to clean himself, he looked at the sink with disgust—then sat at the foot of the bed and slipped his boots on, before standing and opening the door.

The bathroom, he remembered, was at the far end of the hall. Some part of him, reckless and still horny, defied caution and made him step out into the hallway. The tread of his boots echoed loudly on the wood floor as he strode confidently down the hallway, his massive shaft swinging freely and splattering drops of cum over the floor as well as the Trucker’s boot tops.

Reaching the bathroom, he looked around at the dingy facilities in disgust, quickly washing off with a stained towel in lukewarm water. He paced quickly back to the murder room, never noticing that one door on the hall was opened to just a crack—wide enough for a curious eye to peer out.

“He was a big dude,” Ray, the occupant of the room, later told detectives. “No one on the crew, I can tell ya that—we’d love to have someone that strong workin’ for us. No, I didn’t see his face. But damn, man, he was built.” The CSI team found lots of pubic hairs and skin scrapings under the corpse’s nail, but the state of the corpse was a topic of contempt and derision among Derek’s co-workers for months.

Ray had actually fallen asleep by the time the Trucker had dressed, so he never say the killer leave. The killer had gotten a meal, a brief nap, and refill of gas before the corpse was found, and was back on the highway long before cops arrived on the scene.

It had been a cloudy day and as the sun set, the twilight lengthened the shadows into a chilly blue gloom. Even after midnight, the temperature remained fairly stable, but the gloom deepened to the point where it seemed to actively absorb light.

Not many people were out at three in the morning on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, but Robbie didn’t have much choice. Until he could save enough to replace the busted fuel pump on his car, he was walking home from work. It wasn’t a long walk—no more than two or three miles, up past the high school and the rec center—but Robbie was still pissed. Greg wouldn’t let him borrow the car—as if Greg himself was gonna stay sober enough to drive—and ever since Ma had married the asshole, she’d let him run the show. And Greg had already said he didn’t like cocksuckers in his home and wouldn’t have his car parked at a fag bar.

Robbie fumed. He was gonna save up his dough and get the fuck outta this place, even if it meant staying up late for overtime. Mack paid him decently—more than minimum wage, at least—and being bar back at the low-rent dive came with some added benefits not available to most nineteen-year-olds in terms of access to alcohol.

And sex. Robbie had gotten his tight ass plowed at (and sometimes behind) the bar on a number of occasions; he was young, handsome, and very fit. And his demeanor and vocabulary immediately pegged him as being from the wrong side of the tracks—which only made him more desirable to a lot of the dudes at the bar.

It sure had tonight. Problem was, despite being a gay bar, Mack’s was a small-time affair in a bad part of town. It had been packed on Thanksgiving (it had seemed to draw a leather crowd that night), but this was Saturday and a lot of the high-end nightclubs were offering discounts and waiving cover charges. Mack’s was full of drunk old trolls. Nauseated from getting pinched and fondled by nasty old men, reeking of booze, Robbie sought refuge in alcohol himself.

All of which explained why he was staggering slightly as he made his way along the dark and deserted streets at three in the morning. The red glare of neon that proclaimed “Mack’s Bar” had faded behind him some time ago as Robbie turned left off of Grand Avenue and began the long trek up 22nd Street, past the rec center.

On his left was what might looked like an older warehouse, remodeled into hip shops and condos—except that it was about six months old, replacing a lot that had sat vacant for years. Robbie paused on the sidewalk for a moment, catching a glimpse of himself where a nearby streetlight reflected his image in a large storefront window.

Short and stocky, Robbie barely reached five-foot-eight, but he was buff and barrel-chested. His arms and legs were thickly muscled; his broad, rounded pecs presented large nipples, obviously erect under a red t-shirt that was too small for him. Over this, the tough-looking twink sported a brown leather bomber jacket, worn unzipped and open.

Beneath his flat abs, his waist narrowed; around it, the drawstring of a pair of jogging sweats was tied into a granny knot. The jogging pants themselves were dark gray, a Chinese knockoff of Under Armor that didn’t get the logo quite right. It didn’t matter—they clung tightly to his firm thighs, the soft material revealing every detail of Robbie’s well-built body—down to the outline of the thick hog lying along his right thigh.

Elastic at the cuffs cinched the sweats off just above the ankle so that Robbie’s ped socks were almost invisible inside his Adidas Stan Smith retro sneakers, white w/ green details. Not that his kicks were visible in the glass, of course; it didn’t go down that far. His face, on the other hand, was vividly clear.

It was broad and smooth, the skin slightly pale but sprinkled with freckles that were visible even in the reflected image. Somehow, Robbie’s face managed to convey a certain innocence; his wide nose and white, even teeth underscored his large, long-lashed eyes of vivid emerald green.

It was his hair, though, that was most noticeable. Robbie was wearing a plain black baseball cap, but it wasn’t enough to conquer an irrepressible mop of red curls. The term red would be somewhat misleading, in fact—the coarse, wiry strands profusely covering his head were a bright, carroty orange.

Robbie shrugged and walked on. He knew well enough what he looked like, and it was good enough to get him laid when he wanted. His active lifestyle kept him firm and fit, and he got noticed. Maybe, one day, it’d get him notice by a sugar daddy and he could finally tell Ma and that fuckhead Greg to kiss his ass.

His physique had certainly gotten him noticed before, in ways Robbie himself didn’t recognize. And if he’d known, he might not have been so pleased with himself. He certainly hadn’t realized that he’d attracted the attention of someone who now knew far more about him than Robbie would have thought possible…

…someone who was even now stalking him.

————————————————————————————————–

Several days after Adam had fucked a corpse and tossed it into a swimming pool, he was still feeling both excited and terrified. He knew what he needed to do, but he just couldn’t bring himself to commit to the act. In a way, it was too enticing. The muscular young man, aware of his powerful strength, was more afraid of getting too carried away, of getting so excited that he’d be careless.

After all, if he was gonna do this, he was self-aware enough to know that he wouldn’t stop. And he wouldn’t want to, so avoiding detection was paramount.

And so he hemmed and hawed, a fierce internal debate not reflected in his outwardly calm behavior. The argument, however, was resolved by the evening news. Adam’s attention was absorbed by the lead story—a state senator’s kid found raped and strangled in a cheap motel room.

Adam was stunned; he’d been so wrapped up in his mental turmoil that he’d forgotten about the other guy. And now that he’d been reminded, his desire to violate the victim flooded back through him, despite the knowledge that this body had already been removed.

And that was what broke down the internal deadlock. Fuck detection, he’d figure something out. He needed to stick his cock into dead boymeat, and he needed it now. But who?

His mind whirled back to the gym—no, not there. Too many of the other dude’s victims were from there. Someone Adam had visited before himself, maybe? The idea had some possibilities. There was that junior high kid two doors down, the fourteen-year-old, but that probably wasn’t a good idea. You don’t shit where you eat. And there were those other two boys—no, dammit, they had ties to that gym too.

Then Adam remembered the kid from the bar. He’d spotted the dude several months ago—short but muscular, the teen looked like he was nearly as strong as Adam himself. The punk had been lugging around bins full of ice; his tattooed biceps were visible under the taut sleeves of a skin-tight black t-shirt.

Adam had followed him home that night, standing outside the kid’s house with his dick hard and throbbing, listening to a virulent screaming match between the young faggot and his drunken stepfather. Later, he crept into the sleeping youth’s room, leaving a wad of cum in the boy’s kicks and taking a pair of socks with him.

Now, tonight, the image of the hot little homo sprang into him mind spontaneously. It was right after Thanksgiving, would the fucker be working? There was only one way to find out.

It wasn’t a long trip by car, but it was a shitty neighborhood to park in. Still he was only gonna be here for one beer’s worth of time—and when it came right down to it, it didn’t even take that long. Adam had just shut the engine off when the short buff dude came out of the bar’s entrance, dragging a sack of garbage to the dumpster around the corner. Not even bothering to get out, Adam restarted the engine and drove home.

When he came back, he’d be on foot. And it’d be much, much later.

————————————————————————————————–

Much, much later, Robbie was walking up the low, slow incline past the rec center. It was a dark stretch of roadway, with the park running along one side of the street and the other side taken up by a rest home. No light came through from the park; the greenbelt running along the sidewalk took care of that, so Robbie walked in darkness. The old folks’ home across the street was likewise quiet, the lobby dark and locked up. Even the rec center, when he passed it, had been still, the single car at the far end of the parking lot, seemingly left for the night…

A faint rustle to his right made Robbie turn his head to the nearby underbrush, expecting to catch a glimpse of a raccoon, if he was lucky.

He wasn’t lucky. And what he caught a glimpse of was far larger than a raccoon. The large dark shape seemed to come from nowhere, suddenly filling his field of vision. Then there were vague sensations—a swift motion, a sharp pain—and the dark shape expanded to become everything.

Robbie woke up in motion. His face hurt; dirt and leaves were being ground into it—he was being dragged by his legs through the underbrush, face down. Someone was pulling him away from the street, into the depths of the greenbelt. His head ached and his cap was gone; he must have been hit.

He had a vague, confused idea that there was something sexual about all this, but that made no sense. None of this was making any sense—with his t-shirt now pulled up around his neck, his firm, flat belly was scraping the ground, his smooth skin being scratched by rocks and bits of twig.

Disoriented and aching, Robbie began to struggle. Kicking out unexpectedly with his strong legs, he managed to free himself from his unknown assailant. For a moment, he scrabbled helplessly on the ground, then his loose Adidas kicks managed to get some traction in the dirt.

The short, powerful teen regained his feet with a short-lived moment of exultation, then he was blind-sided and slammed sideways into the thick trunk of an ancient tree. The impact knocked the breath out of him and he sank to the ground, peering up at his attacker in the faint kaleidoscopic glinting of distant streetlights that managed to make it through the wind-blown boughs.

From the few details Robbie could make out in the dim, shifting light, the other dude was taller, slightly older and somewhat better built than he was. A brief movement of a branch against the background lighting gave the young homo a silhouette of the well-built man towering over him; even in his pained bewilderment, Robbie felt a straining in his groin as his dick started to stiffen.

————————————————————————————————–

Adam had been tense and excited as he waited in the woods for the little homo to walk by; he was hard with excitement, but his palms were slick with nervous sweat. As amped as he had been watching that kid get offed in the locker room, he still wasn’t sure he could do it—after all, once he’d actually killed, there’d be no turning back…

He’d been surprised how easy it was to put the kid’s light’s out; the fucker was short but built like a bulldog with a broad chest and narrow waist; it had been what had attracted Adam in the first place. He’d gotten the limp punk into the underbrush quickly, taking time to fondle the unconscious faggot only when they were both completely concealed. Even so, the street was still too near for Adam’s comfort. He decided to drag his prey deeper into the woods.

This was a stealth kill, and Adam had dressed the part; one of the reasons Robbie had been unable to see his assailant approach was that the latter was dressed all in black. The youthful killer manqué had covered his red-gold hair—much less brazen than that of his victim—as well as his powerful torso in a tight hoodie of black polyester fleece; with the hood tightly drawn over his head, only his face showed in the darkness, and that but vaguely.

Under this, Adam wore a pair of black utility pants, tight around his firm, muscled ass. They had multiple pockets down the thighs but narrowed below the knee where they were bloused into a pair of Army-surplus combat boots with thick rubber soles that let him move quietly and confidently through the undergrowth.

It was the escape attempt the tripped the trigger. Adam never saw it coming; adrenaline surged through his body the moment he realized that the well-built teenager was no longer in his grasp. The moment the cocksucker collected his wits, he’d be screaming for help. Knowing that he had little time to regain control of the situation, the stronger and slightly older stud body-slammed the little sack of shit sideways into a tree and was now standing over him, looking down on the cowering boy…

…and experienced a rush of bloodlust of almost uncontrollable proportions. The hot young teen, huddled at his feet—and at his mercy, ready to be made into vulnerable, fuckable meat—

—oh yeah, he could do this.

And seeing the thick shaft rising like a tent pole from the pansy’s tight but soft sweats, Adam felt a tingling shock run through his body as if he’d touched a live wire. The meat-to-be was just as hard as Adam himself. A brief incident of violence, and already there were two swollen, throbbing cocks.

It made sense—at least to the fledgling sex killer—that more brutality would bring more sexual pleasure. And the testosterone and adrenaline flooding his young, powerful body was not to be denied; as he stepped up and gazed contemptuously at the young faggot cowering between his combat boots, Adam could feel precum flowing freely from the enlarged piss-slit of his massive, pulsating hog.

On his knees in the dirt, Robbie absorbed the pheromones being given off by the dark figure looming over him; the sex-laden atmosphere only added to his sense of unreality. Alone in the dark woods with a hot anonymous dude—it wasn’t the first time he’d been in this situation on his way home from work, but no one had ever hurt him before.

The handsome gay teen from the wrong side of the tracks was about to learn that not only was there a first time for everything, it was also possible for the first time to be the last time, too. He knew instinctively that he needed to move before he succumbed to a kind of paralytic lust that was stealing over him at the thought of what this unknown stud might do to him.

Again, he lunged forward, twigs catching at the knees of his tight-fitting joggers and tearing the material. He jerked towards his assailant’s right, in what he thought was the direction of the street, gasping loudly prior to calling out for help.

He never got the chance, but he never knew how close he came. With a little more experience, Adam might have expected another escape attempt; as it was, he was unable to prevent it, only to end it—which he did, with a swift, brutal kick, driving his steel-toed combat boot into the boy’s lower ribcage, snapping off the floating ribs on the teen’s right side.

Squealing in pain, the queer punk was flipped onto his back. Adam stood over his prey, knowing that he had to take control of the situation once and for all—and finding that the idea made his cock throb even more intensely. The erotic haze filling his head had almost a reddish tinge; it was through this that he saw the large rock lying two feet to the right of the cumpig’s head.

It was clear that the fagmeat was dazed but not totally out—it was gonna start bleating again; he needed to shut it up. Kneeling down, he grabbed the rock and pulled it out of the soil. Ovoid in shape, about six inches on the long axis and four on the short, it fit his hand perfectly.

Robbie blinked confusedly up at the muscular dude crouching over him. A stray beam of light from a distant streetlight lit the stud’s face; even in his pain and fear, the young faggot felt his swollen tool strain painfully at the sight of his attacker’s deep, dark eyes framed by long lashes and the red-gold stubble on his taut cheeks and firm chin.

“W-why?” Robbie asked tremulously, his late-adolescent voice still cracking with surging hormones. He’d have given himself to this hot top voluntarily.

Adam knew what the single word meant. Still holding the large rock in his hand, he grinned at the prostrate teen. “Cause I like my meat cold, man,” he whispered, his voice low with erotic huskiness. “I’m gonna fuck ya, all right, but I want you dead before I stick my dick in ya.”

The expression on the little cunt’s face showed that he’d heard the words, but hadn’t understood them. At least, not at once; it took some time for the perverted, terrifying meaning to sink through. It was obvious when it hit; the kid’s eyes grew as wide as dinner plates.

“Wha-wh-what?” he gasped.

“Time to die, faggot,” Adam replied calmly and slammed the rock into his face.

Robbie was aware of a loud crunching sound that accompanied the overpowering blast of pain in his head; his cry of pain was somewhat muffled when he coughed out the two rearmost molars from the left side of his fractured jaw. Mewling, with blood dripping from his mouth, the gay teen’s nightmare was just beginning.

And so was Adam’s sadistic killing spree. He’d had no idea how good it would feel to have a sexy young queerboy at his mercy and in his control. And what better way to confirm the possession of power over a victim than by making the victim endure something he never would voluntarily?

Something like, say, horrific pain and death.

Had his tight cargo pants not been black, there would have been a large and spreading circle of precum visible in his crotch as Adam raised the rock for another debilitating blow. This was just to teach the homo to shut up, though. His death, the budding sex killer understood, needed to be long and slow, leaving the meat nice and tight to receive his shaft.

After all, the twisted alpha figured as he smashed the chunk of stone into the moaning punk’s face again, the little cumsucking piece of shit didn’t deserve the D while it was still alive.

The second blow crushed Robbie’s nose, split his lips and shattered a cheekbone. His handsome young face now a battered ruin, the boy wallowed on his back in the dirt, squealing and kicking in agony. In his thrashing, he somehow managed to work free of his bomber jacket, leaving it covered in leaves, the brown leather almost invisible in the dark underbrush.

“Fuck yeah,” Adam moaned ecstatically as the sense of power literally rippled through his firm, taut muscles, making his already-engorged cock throb painfully inside his pants. He tossed the rock to one side—he wasn’t gonna need it any more. Reaching out, he grabbed the youth’s t-shirt and yanked his hands on opposite directions, hard. After the briefest resistance, he was rewarded with a brisk tearing sound as the red tee split down the middle, revealing the kid’s smooth, buff torso.

The teen continued to claw at the purple swollen mass that had been his face, the shredded remains of his shirt still wrapped around his bulging biceps, as Adam grabbed at his waistband and pulled the teen’s jogging sweats down to his ankles before ripping them completely off over his white sneakers.

Of course the horny little fucker had been going commando; Adam hadn’t even considered any other possibility, and for good reason. Short, strong Robbie now found himself nude except for his ped socks and retro Adidas kicks, inexplicably shuddering and wailing in agony in the woods, in the dirt, and he had no idea how he’d ended up like this.

Somewhere outside the boiling flood of pain, the gay punk heard another tearing sound, somehow slightly different than when his shirt was stripped—raising his head with great effort, he could see (just barely; his eyelids were swollen almost completely shut) that his well-built and mysterious attacker had ripped the drawstring out of the sweats that had just been so forcibly removed.

Adam stood up and leaned over the brutalized youth, now in shock-induced paralysis. Grinning down at his helpless fuckmeat, the strong buff stud reached down and slowly unzipped the fly of his black utility pants. Instantly, his thick hog flopped out, precum dripping from the engorged purple tip.

The reaction this provoked made the practicing sadist laugh out loud.

“Lookit that shit,” he chuckled, “Goddam, you really are a horny little faggot, aintcha? I beat the fuck outta yer pansy ass and ya still get hard when ya catch sight of my dick—lessee if you can stay hard after you’re dead, cocksucker.”

And with that, he threw himself down onto the teenager. Robbie, spread-eagled nude (but for his sneakers) in the dirt, grunted and coughed out the last reserve of air in his lungs as the hard-bodied killer slammed down on top of him.

As Adam had remarked, the teen homo had indeed gotten even harder than he’d been before at the sight of his assailant’s cock; his fit young homosexual body, so filled with hormones that they wafted off of him in a pheromone-ridden musk, was helpless to do otherwise. As the heavily-muscled form fell on him, violently expelling his breath, some small part of Robbie’s attention was diverted from the pain and fear into noticing the sensation of the older dude’s hard cock, pressing into his smooth flat belly like a heated iron rod.

But even that cockpig section of his brain couldn’t ignore the implication of the drawstring when the anonymous alpha whipped it up and around his throat; he could ignore it still less when the cold-blooded killer yanked the thick strand of braided nylon so tightly that he was unable to inhale. Robbie’s lungs, already achingly empty, began to burn with searing agony from lack of air.

That was when the teenage homo panicked like the trapped animal he was. Instantly, two hard, muscled, male bodies were locked together in a fatal embrace. Despite the cold, the powerful young man slid over the boy’s smooth, writhing body on a thin layer of sweat as he worked to hold the dying punk down.

“Quit fightin’ it, faggot,” Adam grunted, his biceps bulging as he tightened the thin nylon cord around his prey’s neck. “Yer only makin’ it harder, cunt; I’m gonna waste ya no matter what, so settle down and enjoy the ride.”

Robbie was unable to process the words his killer spoke, but physical agony drove the point into his terror-wracked mind. This hot fucker was snuffing him. It didn’t matter why—what mattered was the he couldn’t breathe and it hurt, it hurt so fucking bad…

He reached up, his hands clawing wildly at those of his killer while his thickly-muscled legs wrapped around the stud’s torso and kicked randomly, the white Adidas sneakers thrashing frantically in mid-air. As they struggled together, Adam could feel the teen’s pulsing cock pressed against him, stiffening reflexively as the kid sank deeper into asphyxia. Adam responded in kind; his own thick shaft was leaking precum all over Robbie’s smooth, flat belly.

His dick was one of the only parts of Adam that was exposed; he was still otherwise fully clothed. The desperate youth clutched at his killer’s dark hoodie, but his grip was weakening His eyes bulged grotesquely from his black and swollen face—and somewhere in the pounding pain inside Robbie’s skull there flashed a vague thought the he was gonna die without ever getting a close look at his killer’s face. All he knew was that he was being choked out by a well-built stud with a huge dick.

Adam wanted to make sure he knew something else, too. “Die, faggot,” he hissed, pausing to spit into his victim’s face. The spittle hit the tip of the meat’s protruding tongue and slid down the length of it to be hidden in the foamy drool that frothed over the kid’s parted lips. “Die so I can stick my cock up yer dead pansy ass, homo. You don’t deserve my dick alive, you cumsucker, so hurry up and fuckin’ choke to death, you useless piece of shit!”

Leaning back a bit, the powerful young man wrapped the nylon drawstring one more time around his hands, then jerked it so hard that tendons stood out in his neck and veins on his bicep.

The braided cord sank into the thrashing fuckmeat’s neck so deeply it vanished from sight. The dying teen began to jerk and shake uncontrollably, causing the drool to run down his chin and cheeks in long white streamers. Even in the dim light, Adam could see the whites of the meat’s cat-like green eyes swiftly darken as blood vessels ruptured under the extreme pressure building up in the boy’s head.

Robbie didn’t know who was killing him, but he knew why. He’d heard Adam’s words—they were the last thing he ever heard. He’d passed the tipping point, he’d gone too long without oxygen to recover. As more and more of his brain died off, his struggles became less frantic and less coordinated. He faded from mindless panic to mindless acceptance, his hands stroking his killer’s fleece hoodie as his legs, already encircling the older stud’s waist, locked together behind his back.

Adam was entranced. He was holding the teen faggot right at the edge of the abyss; the sense of power and control was overwhelmingly erotic. “Ya want it?” he whispered quietly—almost inaudibly over the sound of Robbie’s death throes. “Ya ready for my cock, boy? Only one way to get my load—die, motherfucker, die!”

Adam gave one last mighty yank to the cord and was instantly rewarded with a loud crunching sound as the kid’s esophagus collapsed in a ruin of shattered cartilage. The meat reacted instantly; some reflex reaction caused both the arms and the legs to tighten—Robbie held his killer in one last violent but unconscious embrace.

Then the corpse let go and the convulsions began. The fag had been young and strong; his brain was dead but his body hadn’t gotten the message yet. His thick cock was still erect—even in death, it hadn’t found release. Robbie died without cumming.

This was what Adam was waiting for. In a flash, he was up and crouched over the thrashing meat, flipping it over on its belly so he’d have access to its fuckhole. A look of disgust crossed his face; the smooth, muscled back was smeared with dirt and leaves. Looking around, Adam spied the remains of the red t-shirt he’d torn off his prey. Grabbing it, he used it to wipe off the corpse’s heaving back and brush the leaves out of its carrot-orange hair.

Then he was ready.

Rolling the body back over, he parted the smooth, trembling legs and, sliding between them, placed the cunt’s feet, still kicking and tightly laced into the retro Adidas sneakers, up on his shoulders. Placing the huge purple head of his pulsing cock against the boy’s fuckhole and shoved.

The buff killer shuddered in pleasure as he felt the corpse’s sphincter quivering and convulsing along the length of his vein-wrapped shaft. Adam inserted his dick slowly at first, savoring the sensation of his victim’s death throes, but when he was about a third of the way in, his lust took over and he rammed his cock home, penetrating all the way into the dead teen’s guts—and got an unexpected reward.

The moment his sudden deep thrust speared the snuffed fucker’s prostate, the corpse’s still-hard dick stood straight up and erupted in a shower of hot cum. Adam hadn’t thought it was possible for a dead body to shoot a load, but Robbie had been so primed to ejaculate at the moment of his death that getting fucked in the ass triggered a mindless, reflexive orgasm.

Thick pearly wads splattered up Adam’s dark hoodie, right up into his face. As the fuckmeat’s semen splattered in his face, the now-experienced killer felt his own sperm boiling in his puckered sack, now banging intently against the dead kid’s taint. With a loud groan, the muscled necro pervert grabbed the corpse’s shoulders to hold on as he injected what felt like a quart of steaming seed into the murdered kid’s intestines.

Time seemed to freeze as the hot buff stud, still fully dressed, unloaded his spunk into the lifeless form of his victim, holding the cooling, stiffening form to him as he shuddered in violent orgasm. At last, his balls drained and aching, he disengaged from the body, rolling onto his back and gasping for air as his wet, sticky, still-throbbing cock rose straight up into the cold night air.

It took a few minutes for Adam to regain his breath and get back on his feet; even when he did, he was a little shaky. He looked back at the corpse; Robbie was spread-eagled on his back; in his death struggles, he’d created what Adam thought of as a “leaf angel” in the dirt, clearing the area around him a bit.

It had been incredible. It had been the best sex Adam had ever had. He had to do this again, soon—but not like this.

As good as it had been, there had been something unbearably dirty and squalid about it. Adam wanted to feel another faggot die in his arms, but he didn’t want to fuck in the dirt. It wasn’t the way he wanted to enjoy his meat.

Tucking his cum-smeared hog back into his cargo pants, the newly-minted sex killer considered his options as he made his way through the underbrush back to the sidewalk. An idea had occurred to him. His next kill, he decided, would be in completely different circumstances.

————————————————————————————————–

It took three days for the body to be found; when it was, there was little concern. Mack’s Bar got a new bar back within a week. Greg, Robbie’s stepfather, let out a huge sigh of relief that that faggot wasn’t gonna be in his house any more. Even the dead teen’s mother seemed indifferent to his fate.

In fact, as the news of the murder played on the evening news as a brief filler before commercial, the only person in town who seemed to have any curiosity about Robbie’s murder was Joe.

That was all it took for him to pause. He’d been scrolling through the users on a hookup app on a phone belonging to one of his prior victims. He’d just gotten done with an assignment that had kept him working for eight days straight, and now he wanted to enjoy himself.

Lounging in an easy chair, the muscular stud could feel his cock swelling in the crotch of the faded jeans wrapped around his thick, powerful legs. It was late—about eleven-thirty in the evening. He’d eaten and showered after he’d gotten home, now he was relaxing, half-dressed and horny, looking for prey. Glancing back down at the phone, Joe read the posting.

The post was accompanied by a photo; a torso-only shot. The kid had the slim, lean body of a young teen, with fair skin and large nipples on his smooth chest. Joe threw his head back and laughed aloud. He could snap this one like twig, and this kid was making it so easy…

Joe sent a response and included a shot of his own hairy, ripped abs. He didn’t have long to wait for a reply. “Hey dude ur hot wanna fuck? I got a place.”

Joe knew the place; at least, he’d passed it on occasion. Another motel that had stopped being a viable concern decades ago when the bypass was built and was now only hanging on because there was zero demand for the property and the taxes were rock-bottom. It was the kinda place that was known for drugs and prostitution—and occasional police raids—and Joe wondered how this skinny white twink was familiar with it.

Well, he’d soon find out. He walked back to the bedroom and slipped on a black short-sleeve compression t-shirt that emphasized his broad, muscled chest. Sitting on the bed, he next pulled on a pair of brown lace-up work boots that came halfway up his calves. Standing up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and grunted in satisfaction at the image of hard, dangerous masculinity that he saw.

The motel was about twenty minutes away. When he got there, Joe parked his vintage Camaro out of sight behind the building. The thick soles of his boots thumped loudly on the pavement as he rounded the corner of the building and knocked briefly at the door of room 21.

The door opened and Joe found himself staring down into the face of a teenager. The kid had short straw-blond hair and a pug nose. His almond-shaped eyes were jade green and almost feline. The boy broke into a broad grin as his eyes roamed over Joe’s well-built physique, and Joe decided the kid had the most punchable mug he’d ever seen, and he had restrain the urge to follow through on it.

“Damn, motherfucker, you the dude from the app?” the kid asked, his face twisted into a leer.

Joe walked into the room. It had been remodeled sometime in the sixties and the furnishings would have been considered cool in a retro sense, if they had been in better shape. As it was, the boxy blonde-wood dresser and nightstands were scarred and pocked with burns; on the other side of the door was a small round table of more recent date, but just as badly worn. This was set with two armchairs with dark vinyl covering the padding; the vinyl had multiple tears covered with tape that didn’t quite match the shade.

In short, it was a cheap shithole. Joe closed the door behind him, slipping the chain on and turning the lock in the center of the knob when Jon turned to the side and switched on the AC unit built into the wall under the window. It came on with a grinding thrum that began to move the warm, fetid air. Glancing up at Joe’s face, Jon seemed to notice the scorn there.

“Yeah, it’s nasty, but they don’t ask no questions when I rent a room here. Other places think I’m too young, but they don’t care here.”

It wasn’t illegal to rent a room to an eighteen-year-old, but the kid did indeed look younger. Of course he could show his ID and get a room anywhere with no problem—but Joe could imagine situations where he wouldn’t want to show an ID. Like this one.

Jon provided more. “You wouldn’t believe the dudes I met here. I did a three-way with my swim coach and the assistant principal of my high school here in this room four months ago.” His smooth, faintly freckled face blushed red. Joe had finished reconnoitering the room, noting the queen bed opposite the door and the slightly ajar bathroom door on the far left wall.

Looking back now at the kid, he noticed that Jon was already completely nude, aside from a thin black strand of rawhide around his throat from which dangled a pentagram in beaten silver. The boy wasn’t scrawny, but Joe’s thigh was almost as thick as Jon’s waist. A fine gold peach fuzz covered the boy’s flat belly, thickening as it descended to a mass of golden curly pubes from which projected Jon’s enormous cock.

It was, in fact, somewhat smaller than Joe’s shaft, but in proportion to his slender form, Jon looked like he had a horse dick. And it was already swelling and stiffening as the teen faggot slut reminisced about his adventures. Shame that Mr. Adams, the assistant principal, had got caught banging that boy on the swim team and killed himself; he’d been an amazing fuck…

Joe smiled with cold contempt and began to peel off his shirt. Tossing it on the floor, he noticed that he’d gotten the punk’s attention. The kid was staring at Joe’s massive pectorals, his large dark nipples jutting above the dark, wiry fur that clustered tightly over the alpha’s chest and swept down his washboard abs.

Jon gave a faint moan as memories of past conquests were wiped from his shallow, lust-centered mind. This dude was the shit. He had to have him; he had to have him inside him…

Joe grinned evilly. It was too easy. The stupid little faggots always made it too easy.

And for that alone, if nothing else, they needed to suffer.

“Not yet, boy,” he sneered at the groveling teen homo, “Ya gotta earn this dick. Get over here and work my nips, bitch. Now!”

Jon stepped up placing his hands on the older man’s rock-hard pecs and running his fingers through the stud’s chest fur—so wiry, it felt like steel wool. The twink put his mouth on Joe’s right nipple, licking the firm mound of flesh. At the same time, his hand came up carefully gripped the other nipple between the thumb and forefinger, pinching it and twirling it.

As Jon worked Joe’s nips, the alpha stud could feel the kid’s long dick, bobbing about so that the oozing head occasionally slapped his inner thighs. “Switch sides, cunt,” he snapped, and Jon obeyed, moving over and gently taking the stud’s left nipple between his teeth.

As he did so, Joe reached down and unzipped his fly. He had to flex his knees and shift a bit to get the full, throbbing length of his huge manmeat out its tight denim confinement, but Jon followed him like a good pig, never letting the hard, erect nipple leave his mouth.

Jon felt Joe’s massive hog flop out and stood back. Looking down, he was stunned to silence; fully limp, the dude was more than six inches long. As he watched in horrified fascination, the enormous shaft began to pulse and swing as it started to get hard. He could already tell, this was much larger than any cock he’d taken in the past.

This was gonna fuckin’ hurt.

And he wanted it so fuckin’ bad.

Joe could see it all, the way lust glazed the boy’s eyes as the kid stared at his dick, the way he panted excitedly. He’d hooked his prey. Whether he reeled it in gently or violently didn’t matter; it was hooked, and it wasn’t getting away.

“Suck it,” he commanded. “Suck my fuckin’ dick, bitch.”

Jon hesitated. “I—you’ll choke me, dude…”

Joe’s grin became more shark-like. “Yeah. Now get on it, faggot.”

Opening his mouth, Jon leaned forward tentatively, but the sadistic alpha wasn’t putting up with it. The slim blond twink suddenly found his head, clamped in a vise-like grip, jerked roughly forward. His open mouth was immediately plugged with thick, throbbing cockmeat as the older stud’s mushroom head forced its way into his esophagus.

“Swallow it, cunt, take my dick all the way down,” Joe grunted as he applied pressure to the back of the teen’s head. Jon started to struggle as his air was cut off. He beat uselessly on Joe’s muscles thighs, still tightly constrained in his faded jeans. The youth’s eyes started to water as the massive vein-wrapped tube of flesh continued to sink further into his throat.

Even in his frantic airlessness, Jon couldn’t help the fuckpig thoughts from bubbling up: my god he’s so deep he’s gonna shoot a load straight into my stomach that’s so goddam hot…

But of course, after a while, the physical intervenes. Jon had been breathing through his nose for as long as he could, but when Joe’s shaft slid over his epiglottis and sealed off his lungs, he literally started to suffocate.

“Worthless faggot twink, can’t even take a real man,” Joe sneered as he partially withdrew his rod—just enough to let Jon gasp for air. Once. After a deep inhale, the kneeling teen felt his head being forced inexorably back down onto the older dude’s dick. He wasn’t ready; he hadn’t recovered enough. “HORK!” he gagged as jets of foamy drool burst out around Joe’s cock and dangled off Jon’s chin in long streams; more foam shot from the boy’s nose and dribbled down his face.

Jon was flailing frantically, his mind awash in fear. He liked a dominant older top, a daddy who would hold him down and fuck him as “punishment,” but this combination of hate-filled abuse and physical ruthlessness was unlike anything he’d ever experienced or anticipated–or hoped for…

The kid’s hands, clawing their way down Joe’s legs, hooked into the alpha’s nearly knee-high workboots, snagging on the laces. The sadist jerked his right leg back and swiftly kicked Jon, the steel toe of the boot driving directly into the teen’s flat belly. At the same time, he let go of the kid’s head.

Jon flung himself backwards with almost explosive force, ending up crouched on the floor at the foot of the bed. His slim, nubile body was heaving and glistening with sweat as he coughed and gagged, one hand around his throat while he braced himself against the bed with other.

Jon’s eyes rolled wildly, like those of a panicked horse; with a sudden effort, they focused on the door beyond his assailant. His reaction was reflexive; almost mindless—he bolted.

His lithe body, with its lean swimmer’s build, was quick, but Joe—despite being well-built—was not so muscle-bound that he couldn’t reach out and snatch the teen as he sprang forward. Clamping his hands around the boy’s upper arms, he jerked the slender twink up and held him, literally kicking in mid-air.

A familiar feeling of pleasure and power swept of Joe. The kid was slender but not skinny; there were muscles attached to his slim frame. His smooth skin stretched tautly over his pecs and delts, his biceps and thighs—and Joe could break him any time he wanted.

“Shut up!” Joe barked and spit in the kid’s face. Jon gasped in shock; he’d never been treated with such utter contempt. He’d met so many guys here—classmates, some of his friends’ dads, the Baptist youth pastor—and they had all worshipped his slim teen body. They’d fucked him, but—but this relentless coldness, this complete disregard of him as a person—this degradation to a sex object—

Jon was a shallow hormone-driven faggot slut, but he wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t know exactly what was about to happen, but he had no doubt it would be bad.

Joe was still holding the twink in the air by crushing his arms against his sides; the longer he was held there, the more Jon suffered. The powerful sadist grinned and drew his prey in closer, peering into Jon’s face. “You sure you’re eighteen? Yer ad was right, ya do look younger.”

Jon had spent several minutes suspended by his arms; he was forced to lift his entire body weight with each breath. He could only stare frantically into the icily handsome face of his attacker and gasp like a landed fish.

“Well, yer ad said ya were and that’s good enough. After all, if yer old enough to die for the government, yer old enough to die soaking up my cum. Ready, boy?”

Jon kicked out in blind terror, his bare foot making contact with Joe’s denim-wrapped inner thigh. It wasn’t as bad as if he’d racked Joe, but it was still a mistake. Joe was enraged. He raised the boy up, then slammed him straight back down onto the floor.

The cheap, thin carpet provided little padding against the concrete slab underneath. Jon hit the floor with enough force to stun him and drive the breath from his body. His lithe, slim form writhed on the scratchy synthetic carpet as he tried instinctively to breathe. Semi-conscious, his eyes rolled back as he jerked and flopped on the ground.

The quivering, moaning punk felt rather than heard the thump of Joe’s big boots on the floor; prying open one eye, he had the impression of the vicious stud standing over him, although all he could see was a ladder of bootlaces up the alpha’s leg. Then he noticed that one foot was drawing back—

The teen faggot didn’t even have time to cower before Joe kicked him brutally in the chest, the steel toe of the work boot impacting Jon’s sweaty, heaving flank and neatly snapping two ribs. The hulking sadist grinned as the boy squealed.

Then he paused and let out a grim chuckle. “And I don’t think you can pay, boy. I think yer gonna run short. And that means I’m gonna hafta take it outta yer hide.”

Jon stared up at his assailant. Joe wasn’t a bodybuilder, but his recent workouts had enlarged his muscles and gave him a powerful, masculine presence that stirred the young slut’s balls despite the pain and overwhelming fear. The twink shuddered in agony, but could still feel his cock throb treacherously, responding to the undeniable eroticism of the sculpted stud who was inflicting such shattering pain on him…

“Ha!” Joe cawed harshly. “I can see yer fuckin’ cock, homo—goddam, fag, yer already oozin’.” He bent over, leering into the teen’s pain-twisted face, knowing the kid’s dick was involuntarily erect. Happened every time. Little fucks always seemed to be surprised when he put them down; they all wanted it—they just didn’t know it until it actually happened.

“No—no…” Jon gasped weakly. He writhed feebly on the floor as the cheap, thin carpet dug into his back and the silver pentagram danced on his firm chest. His lithe, smooth body slick was with sweat. His face, pale with agony, was wide-eyed in bewildered shock; it was obvious that the assault had taken the hot teen slut completely by surprise.

He flinched, instinctively and vainly, when Joe reached for him again. The powerful alpha stooped, one-handedly grabbing the youth by his right arm and jerking him into the air.

The kid screamed as his right shoulder was twisted violently out of place, tearing tendons and ligaments. “Quiet, cunt!” Joe barked, drawing back his free arm and driving a roundhouse punch straight into Jon’s jaw. The slender blond fag grunted as his head popped back. His teeth snapped closed violently, biting through his tongue; blood trickled from his swollen, split lips.

The sadistic top caught his slightly warped reflection in the mirror above the dresser; the glass was cheap but huge, visible from most of the room—including the bed. He smirked at the image of his broad, hard body holding the twitching boymeat aloft. His legs were spread wide, the tight denim jeans highlighting his muscular thighs and his strong calves making his tall laced workboots bulge.

Standing straight out from his crotch, his enormous tool was thick and dark. It throbbed visible in time with his rapid heartbeat; each pulse forced viscous, translucent beads of precum to stand out on the hulking killer’s mushroom tip. His left bicep was swollen with the strain of holding the kid up, but there was no strain in his hard, darkly-scruffy face. In fact, the only sign of effort was the faint sheen of sweat on his broad, furry chest.

In his grasp, the smooth young boy dangled, his arm visibly twisted out of joint. The semi-conscious teen was moaning, his eyes rolled back in his head and a thin trickle of blood running down his chin from the corner of his mouth.

And even with all that, Joe noted with cold amusement, the little homo cunt’s cock was still hard.

Jon was flying through the air before he was aware of anything more than a sudden increase in the searing pain in his shoulder. He realized that his buff, powerful attacker had hurled him at the bed; it flashed through his mind in the split second before he smashed into the headboard and vanished into a loud, painful darkness…

Joe looked down contemptuously at the blond youth’s unconscious body, face-down and twitching limply on the rumpled comforter. the kid had landed on his right arm, managing to pop it back into its socket–the torn ligaments and stretched muscles severely limiting motion.

Joe paced around the bed, admiring the teen’s smooth form; the thought of plunging his huge stiff rod into the helpless boy’s fuckhole made his piss slit dilate to allow an almost steady flow of precum to seep out.

As he moved around the bed, Joe grabbed his thick, throbbing dickmeat and slapped against his palm, sprinkling his hot manjuice over the mewling cunt’s body. Jon was slowly clawing his way back to consciousness. Once he was sure his prey was awake enough to comprehend, the cruel alpha spoke.

“Hey, faggot—back just in time to get this party started!” The cold lustful glee in his voice stung Jon’s confused, pain-wracked mind like a whip; the punk panicked, wallowing helplessly on the bed. His right arm was practically useless, nearly as bad as broken.

The terrified teen wasn’t able to actually gain any traction. His bare feet slipped on the slick polyester comforter while his left arm grabbed at the sheets, yanking them into disarray. He kicked and flailed uselessly, the icy fear that chilled his heart growing as the brutal sadist neared, slowly and deliberately.

Jon sobbed in terror, trying to understand what was happening. The thin sheets scratched at his face; the feeling was familiar. A single lucid inappropriate thought slashed through the emotional and physical shock in the teen’s mind—he’d been here, last Saturday. Here, in this room, on this bed.

He’d buried his face deep in the mattress to muffle his own moans as Danny Helms fucked him. Danny was the star of the high school wrestling team and had been since his freshman year. He was incredibly butch and usually juggled several girls at once. He also managed to come across as a serious douchebag as he publicly critiqued the skills of his various bitches.

No one knew that handling the writhing, sweaty, struggling bodies of other young men got Danny hard. He’d been fucking Jon on the DL for a couple of years. And last Saturday had been most recent—here. Right here.

Somehow, the memory of that incredible fuck with a buff FWB added to the teen fag’s confused disorientation. Whatever was happening, it had to be a dream. This couldn’t be real, not here, not for him. If he fought hard enough, he might be able to wake himself out of this nightmare—

—then a hand clamped down on his shoulder, a large hand, hard as iron, and he knew he was awake. Despite his inexplicable and downright painful erection, Jon still found himself pissing in terror. He gulped and started hyperventilating, unable to speak or cry out as he was jerked roughly down the bed.

Suddenly, before Jon realized what had happened, he found that he been maneuvered so that he was on his knees on the bed, his face down on the sheets and his ass in the air, vulnerable and exposed.

And then it wasn’t exposed any more. At first, Jon had a hallucinatory flash, an image of a billiard ball being shoved up his ass. But the alpha’s sharp hiss in his ear dispelled that notion. “Does it hurt, homo? It shouldn’t, you fucking whore—how many dudes you taken, cunt? Huh? How many? I bet you been gettin’ fucked by all kinda horny teen fucks at school, yeah? How many, faggot?”

Joe’s thighs bulged briefly as he flexed his powerful legs and drove his engorged rod all the way in, burying himself balls-deep in the teenager’s torn, penetrated fuckhole. As his wiry pubic hair abraded Jon’s smooth asscheeks like steel wool, his swollen, purple head probed deep into the kid’s intestines.

Jon screamed. He’d been fucked rough before, but he’d never endured anything like this; no one else had been anywhere this huge—and no one had been this brutal. They’d eased their way in, tenderly and lovingly; even Danny, while dominating him and pinning him to the bed, had gone in gently.

There was nothing tender or gentle about this and there sure as fuck wasn’t any love. By the same token, the room was almost foggy with male pheromones given off by their slick, sweaty bodies…

And the searing pain continued. He tried to escape; he really did. His slim but muscled legs kicked back, entangling themselves helplessly in the sheets. His left arm reached up, clawing at the headboard, but all he managed to do was dislodge the fitted sheet, revealing the stained mattress underneath.

Joe pulled out, leaving just the bulbous head of his cock still in the kid’s ass, allowing Jon’s shriek to taper off before he slammed it in again in a single brutal thrust. The writhing teen punk screeched as the massive shaft tore back up through his colon.

“Shut up, cunt!” Joe barked but Jon wasn’t able to comply; the pain was too much. Joe decided to make him obey. He grabbed a fistful of the teen’s blonde hair, and using it like a handle, forced the weeping youth’s face down into the mattress, muffling the sounds of the sobs.

In addition to the horrible agony of getting his guts reamed out by this psycho alpha’s horsedick, Jon suddenly found himself being suffocated. Even though the stud was only holding him down by gripping his hair, the dude was so strong, he was able to straight-arm the young fag’s head deep into the rough, lumpy mattress. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t turn his head, even slightly, to either side.

Joe knew exactly what he was doing. He savored the way panic made the boy’s stretched-out sphincter retighten around the base of his dick. It kept its grip as he pumped his swollen tool into the struggling faggot’s asshole.

“Yeah, that’s it,” the muscled top grunted. With one hand still forcing the teen’s face into the bedding, he ran his other hand over Jon’s trembling back, sliding smoothly along the film of sweat wrung excruciatingly from the kid’s body. “Yeah, that’s what it takes, huh? That what ya need, ya homo bitch? Ya like it when ya can’t breathe?”

Over the panicked pounding of his pulse, Jon could hear his assailant’s taunts—but he didn’t understand them. There was so much pain in his violated rectum that he was aware only of what was happening with his sphincter; the words made no sense. But the lack of logic only made the aggressive rapist’s words even more terrifying.

And even though was happened next was even worse, it took Jon a moment to realize it.

At first, his only sensation was that of relief—the hulking stud let go of his head, allowing him to raise up and gasp deeply, coughing and groaning. Simultaneously, the dude pulled out, leaving the teen homo quivering on the bed, feeling like he’d been raped with a baseball bat. Jon’s abused body went limp like a doll with its stuffing torn out—which was more or less what Jon felt like.

Then grip closed on his shoulder again. This time he was flipped, the brutal alpha spinning his body as easily as if it was a toy. The teen found his self on his back, dizzy from the violent motion. He was almost spread-eagled with his right leg sliding off the bed, the sheets still lightly wound about his right foot.

Glancing down between his parted legs, the terrified youth found his attention focused on two things.

The first was the towering form of the well-built top standing at the foot of the bed. Jon’s attention would have been dragged to Joe in any case, the latter’s hairy, sculpted torso drawing the young fag’s gaze with a gravitational attraction. The toned stud’s broad chest was heaving with exertion and slick with sweat; beads of perspiration glittered in his wiry fur.

But more than that—the dude’s cock, jutting out in front of him from the open fly of his jeans, seemed to be even larger that Jon remembered—although that could have been the pain talking; the helpless teen was still shuddering in agony from the vicious assrape. But the threat implicit in that swollen, throbbing shaft, oozing a swiftly-dripping stream of precum, had a hypnotic effect on the slender young homo.

Joe’s handsome, chiseled face was lit with lust and cruel glee as he looked at Jon’s crotch.

And that was the second thing Jon noticed—his own thick shaft, glistening and slick. It was softening but was still at least six inches above his flat, smooth belly. He vaguely wondered why he’d been hard…

Jon was right, Joe was looking at his cock. He knew the answer to Jon’s question—and he knew that Jon would be asking it.

Again, Joe grabbed his massive tool and slapped it into his other hand, splattering the fuckmeat’s firm, smooth thighs with a sprinkle of glazed manjuice. As the kid whimpered, the cruel alpha smirked and glanced at his face.

The boy’s green eyes were wide and desperate; his blond hair was matted and several shades darker with sweat. Each panicked gasp the punk took was labored; his two broken ribs had not punctured a lung but his lean swimmer’s abdomen still shuddered with pain every time his chest moved.

And then the alpha was over him. Not in him, not yet, but on the bed over him. Jon opened his eyes and saw the huge muscled form poised above him. The sudden realization of his utter helplessness washed over the teen like an ice-cold tide. No one would miss him for several hours yet; even then, no one knew where he was.

That was plenty of time for this dude to hurt him bad. And he didn’t know anything about the guy except that he was hot as fuck—and he got off on hurting Jon bad.

The blond youth stared up into his tormentor’s face, his green eyes rimmed with tears and wide with desperate appeal. “P-please, no…” he whispered in horror as Joe’s cold, hypnotic gaze held his focus. “D-d-don-don’t hurt-hurt me, m-man, please, n-no, fu-fuck no, p-please…”

“Yeah,” Joe whispered back, “Beg, you fucking fag. Beg for your worthless pig life.” Sneering, he cleared his throat and spat on Jon’s face. The boy obeyed; he instinctively knew that it was useless to resist.

He got what he wanted right away. As the slender homo twink shuddered in pain and coughed up his tooth, Joe grabbed his legs and pushed them back, all the way over until Jon’s knees were nearly touching his ears. Lean and limber as he was, Jon cried out as his body was bent double—but it was nothing to the shriek of agony the kid emitted as the alpha plunged his swollen, throbbing tool in full-length.

There was no warning. There was no preparation. Jon had been too dazed by the blow to his face to realize what having his fuckhole so exposed meant—until it was plugged, stretched beyond capacity by an enormous, pulsating tube of manmeat.

Joe grunted and planted his tightly-laced workboots far apart on the bare mattress, making sure he had enough traction for his bulging thighs to support him while he powerfucked the faggot cunt. The fuckmeat coughed and gagged as its chest was compressed into an unnatural position, but the violent ass-pounding soon forced another loud screech from it.

He spit into the teen’s swollen face; Jon felt the hot spittle slide down his bruised, aching cheek. He opened his mouth to scream again; it was reflexive, tied to the pain. What rational mind the tortured blond youth had left realized that more sound would bring more pain, but could do nothing to intervene.

Something did intervene, though. Suddenly, large, strong hands wrapped around Jon’s neck and tightened relentlessly. Jon’s large green eyes, already wide with fear, opened to an extent that was almost comical.

At least, the smirking sneer on the sadistic alpha’s face indicated he found something amusing in the situation as he slowly crushed the boy’s throat.

Jon didn’t—wouldn’t—recognize the glitter in the buff stud’s eye as the gleam of homicidal lust. He clawed at the vise-like grip at his throat as his firm, smooth body jerked and flailed beneath the muscled mass of Joe’s furry torso. His bare feet kicked the air over Joe’s shoulders as his air was cut off.

He still refused to believe he was dying. He hurt so bad—oh fuck he hurt so bad, he was being fucking impaled holy Christ it hurt so much—but his craven pig soul still clung to its youthful sense of immortality. Jon was simple incapable of conceiving of his own death.

And Joe knew it. He grinned in erotic anticipation, and knowing that seeing is believing, gave a sidelong glance at the large mirror.

He was gonna be able to show the teenage fuckmeat its own snuff.

He clenched his hands, feeling the punk’s esophagus give under the pressure. The boy grimaced and thrashed, his ruined ass sliding along Joe’s huge, vein-wrapped shaft. The buff killer didn’t even have to pump…

“That’s it, cunt. Work my dick like a good fag. An’ all it took to turn ya into a cockpig was gettin’ choked a little, huh? Guess what, ya worthless piece of homo shit, I’m just gettin’ started. I’m gonna use you like a cumrag and leave yer corpse like the garbage it is. Ya like that, boy? That get ya off? I guess it does, you sick motherfucker, yer dick is hard as a rock. Fuck, I’m gonna do the world a favor, puttin’ a pervert like you down—ain’t that right, fuckwad?”

Again, Jon heard the words but there was a disconnect from reality. His guts were being reamed out by a huge throbbing mantool; his colon was being wrecked beyond repair, but it was the grinding, squeezing pressure that circled his throat like an iron band of ever-diminishing diameter that claimed his attention.

The teen slut was slender but strong; he kicked and jerked violently in his frantic attempt to break free. He stopped trying to pry Joe’s hands from around his neck and moved higher, feeling the powerful sadist’s knotted biceps bulge as he literally wrung the kid’s neck. Jon was nowhere near strong enough to knock Joe’s arms aside; his questing hands scrabbled even further along the stud’s arm.

Joe was pumping his rod into the meat’s fuckhole swiftly, grunting with each thrust as he grinned down into the kid’s twisted, agonized face. “See, I toldja—” He was abruptly interrupted by the cunt’s fingers, clawing in his face, scratching at the bristles of dark scruff that covered Joe’s cheeks. Sheer terror had overridden pain enough for Jon to force his maimed right arm up as well, but the searing agony as torn tendons finally split and separated was nightmarish.

The dominant alpha grunted; it’d been a while since any fuckmeat had caught him off-guard. His grip loosened for a moment as the kid’s hands slipped down his hard, sweaty body and grasped at his broad torso, tearing out several strands of wiry chest hair.

Jon wasn’t really aware of what he’d done; despite the pain, his clawing had been panicked and unconscious. He was aware of the results, though—the iron band relaxed; he could breathe. Exhaling the foul air in his lungs, he inhaled deeply, sucking in lots of fresh oxygen—

—then his air was cut off again—swiftly, brutally, painfully.

Joe had withdrawn one hand, but had thrown himself forward, straight-arming his other hand directly into the punk’s larynx. He gripped the fucker’s windpipe and squeezed while resting his entire body weight on that hand.

The other hand, clenched into a fist, was pummeling the meat’s face. Joe provided commentary, accompanied by the smacking sound of flesh on flesh.

Each blow landed with the force of an industrial piledriver; Jon’s head rocked back onto the mattress, his entire body flinching as his face was beaten mercilessly and his jaw and cheekbones broken. And at no time did Joe’s pulsing shaft ever ease off Jon’s traumatized asshole; in fact, the meat reacted to each individual blow as if he’d been donkey-punched, his stretched-out sphincter contracting involuntarily—and excruciatingly.

When Joe had finally worked off his excess rage, he clamped both hands back around the meat’s neck. This time, instead of leaning over his prey, he rose up on his knees, still gripping the teen up tightly by the throat. The light was better like this; Joe could see the thin strand of black rawhide snaking out under his hand and the silver pentagram bouncing on the boy’s sweat-slick chest.

More importantly, he could see both of them in the mirror. As he kept his young victim impaled on his enormous dick, he forced the slut’s head to the side, slowly and inexorably, until the fucker could see his own reflection.

And Jon had to. Even though the lids were bruised and swollen, his eyes were still bulging too much for them to close. He literally couldn’t close his eyes.

The lean, smooth teen was forced to watch himself get raped and strangled.

Joe was hunched over the slim, lithe form; Jon’s legs were still wrapped around Joe’s neck and held by his arms. Pinned on his back by Joe’s muscular weight—and a gigantic shaft of manmeat sunk into his intestines—the young fag was helpless. Dominated and controlled, he had no choice. He had to look in the mirror.

At first, he didn’t recognize himself; that grotesque, distorted mask couldn’t be him. But as the pressure built in his chest and the painful buzzing intensified in his dying brain, he could see his eyes swelling, the green irises barely visible as hemorrhages bloomed like red poppies in the whites of his eyes.

It wasn’t true; it wasn’t happening. If he didn’t believe it, it wasn’t happening. He could fight it off. He flailed hysterically, his strong smooth arms beating at Joe’s flanks and chest as vainly as if they had been beating marble–at least one was; the other was weakly jerking and twitching in a pathetically futile attempt at self-defense. And anyway, the alpha stud’s muscled abs were impervious to what feeble force the dying teen could generate.

The kid tried to scream; all he succeeded in doing was forcing his bulging, purple tongue further out between his split and bloody lips, accompanied by a thick gagging sound. But Joe knew the words echoing in the deafening chaos of the youth’s oxygen-deprived brain.

“Scream, faggot,” he whispered—not to the struggling pansy choking in his hands, but to the mirror, using the mirror to look Jon in the eyes. “Pray to yer god, beg for yer mommy—ain’t nothin’ gonna save yer stretched-out fag ass, cunt. Yer gonna die with my cock buried in yer fuckhole, boy, and you like that, dontcha? Lookit yer dick, motherfucker, yer homo shaft is hard as steel—ha!” he laughed triumphantly. “Goddam choke pig, you fuckin’ love this shit! The harder I squeeze yer neck, the harder yer ass squeezes my hog—fuck, dude, you’re really gettin’ off on dyin’, aintcha?”

He turned back to Jon and spit in his face. The shuddering teen couldn’t feel it, but his fading vision managed to capture the glitter of the saliva as it trickled down his blackening face and mingled with the thick white foam oozing from around his dark protruding tongue. Even in his final moments of life, his shallow mind was still attracted to bright, shiny things.

Joe could tell the kid was almost gone. The boy’s arms no longer thrashed wildly against him; now, the lean youth was caressing him, the movement of his limbs, even the damaged arm, became more rhythmic as the slut’s brain died. There was no sense in making the meat watch anymore; it was likely blind by now anyway. But its sphincter was still responding, and that was the important thing.

Joe was close. He could feel the semen building in his balls; he was gonna blow soon. The speed of his thrusts increased unconsciously; he could feel the young cunt’s cock slapping moistly against his furry, ripped abs, splattering them with a continuous rain of precum. The meat was so fucking close itself…

Jon was past conscious thought; his body only responding to the random nerve stimuli caused by progressive brain death. In a final instinctive fight for life, the convulsing youth clawed at his throat again. This time, his left hand clutched at his silver pentagram unawares, jerking and snapping it free. A connected chain of electrochemical energy fired in the teenmeat’s failing grey matter; a last flash of Jon’s personality that was somehow aware of pain—crushing pain in the throat, burning pain in the chest, searing pain in the ass—and a straining, frustrating pain in the cock…

And then there was a loud crunch that ended everything. All the teen’s hopes and fears, all his suffering and pleasure, vanished in a moment as his esophagus was crushed in Joe’s powerful hands, his hyoid bone shattering in his throat as his neck collapsed in the sadistic killer’s vise-like grip.

Rutting and grunting like a bull in heat, Joe felt the teenaged faggot’s moment of death as the homo kid’s fuckhole tightened frantically at the final moment of brain death, forcing a violent spasm from the dominating alpha. The sweaty, muscular stud’s skin pumped out pheromones as his thick, pulsating rod pumped out a solid stream of cum with such force it flooded the fairy slutboy’s guts…

And Jon’s cock was still erect and throbbing, full of his deathload even after death. The end had come upon him too quickly for him to enjoy his final orgasm, but the meat still needed release. Joe obliged.

Tightening his grip even more, Joe dug his thumbs into the base of Jon’s jaws and applied pressure. His biceps swelled and his deltoids bulged as he squeezed and popped Jon’s head off the top of his spine, shattering the young faggot’s neck.

There was another loud crunching sound, different in timbre. It was the shattering of the meat’s topmost vertebra; as bone shards sliced into the the teen’s spinal column, there was another clenching of the meat’s ass—and as Joe spewed another hot load of manspunk into the homo punk’s ass, the boy’s dick finally gave way to the convulsions that wracked his entire smooth slender body. As it bucked like a bronco, the purple, pulsating shaft began to unload long ropy strands of cum that splattered onto Joe’s broad, well-defined chest and matting his fur. The meat was already dead, long past being able to enjoy his deathload, but the convulsions in his rectum milked several more hot wads out of Joe’s engorged tool…

After a while, Joe slowed to a stop and looked over into the mirror. He saw two bodies, still intertwined—his own, sweating and heaving in exertion, but slowly coming under control, and the meat’s, still impaled on his cock, quivering and trembling spasmodically. The boymeat’s death throes were slowing almost imperceptibly as Joe withdrew his cum-slathered rod from the homo’s ravaged asshole.

The kid ended up flat on his back, spread-eagled, with cum and blood leaking out his ass and a sprinkling of his own cum backsplashed across his smooth chest and flat belly. His arms were lying slightly out from his sides and his hands were balled into fists; blood leaked from the left on where cadaveric spasm had made him clutch his pentagram pendant so tightly he’d cut his skin. The cold dead hand still tightly grasped the useless decoration.

Standing over the trembling corpse, Joe sneered contemptuously down at the boymeat. Stupid little sack of shit had gotten what it deserved. He glanced around for something he could use to wipe off his dripping cock and spied a sky-blue bikini thong lying on the floor next to the bed.

What a fucking whore, he thought as he stooped to snatch it up and use it to wipe the oozing cum off his shaft. Tucking his thick tool back into his jeans, he zipped his fly and collected the compression t-shirt he’d worn on the way in. The alpha killer could feel the boycum drying to a sticky glaze in his own chest fur.

Slipping the shirt on, he took one last backward glance at the still-convulsing corpse, covered in glazed manjuice. He knew this one was young; he hoped he wouldn’t have too much trouble with it. When he left, it was nearly a quarter past one in the morning; he made sure he locked the door behind him.

The next day, though Joe was cursing himself and deciding to lay low for a bit. He needed to vet his prey better. The news was full of the disappearance of the seventeen-year-old son of a Republican state senator…

It began idly enough; Joe was randomly trolling through an online hookup app. Specifically, he was poking around on the same app Andy had had—the Asian punk he’d offed earlier.

Naturally enough, it was dangerous to carry the phone too long; it would be tracked. So before he disposed of it, he hijacked the dead fag’s account, changing the profile and the password. But he still wasn’t gonna access it on his own phone; that’d be stupid. He hadn’t taken anything off the last meat he’d offed—the one in the public bathroom—so he’d gone and gotten a burner phone.

He really wasn’t even looking, just curious what was around, when the ping came, and it was close. Joe glanced around, but there was no one else in the parking lot. It must have come from inside the building.

One of the reasons Joe wasn’t actively hunting at the moment was his proximity to the scene of his last kill. He was at the rec center at the north end of the park where the restroom had been located. He was there for the swimming pool.

The heat had gotten intense lately; so intense, in fact, that Joe had given up on running until cooler weather set in. He’d returned to his gym for the duration of the summer, and while he utilized most of the available equipment, he preferred the pool for a solid full-body workout. Problem was, the pool at his gym had been closed down for long-term remodeling the week before.

His membership allowed him access to the pool at another gym across town, but on weekdays there were all kinda of classes and lessons—things like water aerobics, even swimming lessons. He would be lucky to find an open lane.

On the other hand, the free pool at the rec center was almost always deserted. It really made no sense; it was larger—the only Olympic-sized pool in town, in fact—and very well maintained. Even the locker and shower rooms were kept spotless (the male one, at least; Joe couldn’t vouch for the female side).

He had just pulled into the lot and was sitting in his car, just checking the scene when he got hit on. The altered account now showed Joe’s buff, hairy, toned torso as a profile pic and usually generated some lust among the homos on whom Joe was preying. In this case, the message came almost immediately after the ping.

“Hey, stud,” it read, “Love the muscles. Work out a lot?”

The profile didn’t have a face pic; the avatar was some kind of zodiac thing. All it contained was a name—Cory—and an age—twenty-two.

“Yeah,” Joe replied. He was interested, but only very slightly; he didn’t have enough to go on. The communication proceeded quickly and tersely.

—“U looking now?” from “Cory”.

—“Yeah”

—“Where r u”

—“Rec center on Kanen rd still in parking lot U?”

—“here too in locker room” This one was accompanied by photos.

Cory turned out to be relatively well-built. Short and slightly smaller than Joe, he was young with straw-blond hair, styled carefully to look like scruffy negligence. He had wide-set green eyes ringed by long lashes, a pug nose, broad smooth cheeks and the blinding, suspiciously easy grin of a natural con man.

The pics weren’t limited to his face, though. One displayed his smooth, toned torso to perfection; another showed half a foot of manmeat jutting proudly from a golden nest of pubic hair.

Joe hadn’t been looking, but he’d found something. “OMW,” he messaged back as he snatched up his gym bag—Speedos, a towel and some grooming items—and got out of the car. Once inside the building, he glanced around the lobby, again noticing how empty the place was. Even for the middle of a weekday, it was deserted.

The pool was down a hall to the left. A set of double doors on the right side opened into the pool area, cavernous and alive with faint obscure echoes. Skittering glimmers of light, reflected from the surface of the water, seemed to make the background shadows dart and scurry furtively. The entire room was empty, but it still seemed occupied.

On the far side of the pool, bracketed by huge signs declaring no lifeguard on duty, were the doors to the locker rooms; the men’s was the closer door. Joe was already familiar with the layout and headed in that direction.

His feet, firmly laced into a pair of black size-11 Puma Tazon kicks with white ped socks just barely visible, padded quietly across the concrete decking. Above, he wore nothing but a pair of low-waist shorts, black with red trim. The shorts were so form-fitting that Joe’s massive cock was outlined like a long black ridge running down his thigh, the head almost peeping out under the hem. There was nothing covering the broad expanse of wiry fur on his rock-hard, sculpted chest

Pushing open the door, Joe strode into the dank locker room. The far back wall of the room was covered with a double row of lockers, an upper and a lower. Set out perpendicularly from the wall were more lockers, forming small “bays”, with wooden benches between them. On the right side of the room was a row of sinks with mirrors above; on the right side were the showers.

And in the locker bay on the far left, beyond the sinks, a boy was sitting on the slatted wood bench.

It was the same grinning blond kid from the app. He was leaning back on the bench, propped up on one arm, his smooth, taut body almost glowing under the fluorescent lights. His other hand was tucked down inside the tiny bathing suit he wore, stroking his hard dick.

The shorts were electric blue with a black band at the waist. Inside the band was a drawstring, also black, tied in a large but basic bow. The suit was so short that if the bottom edges had been slanted up instead of running horizontally across the thigh, he’d have been wearing briefs.

The only other thing he was wearing was a pair of Nike Free RN sneakers, white with the trademark in black; his well-developed upper body was bare.

“Hey, dude,” he murmured up at Joe with a leer when the latter got close, “Ya lookin’ to play?”

“I might be,” Joe replied, his lips twisted with faint, cold smile. “So how do you play? What do you want?”

The kid stood up. “Dick, man. I want your dick.”

Joe’s smile became deeper, more contemptuous. “Good answer,” he replied, reaching his hand down and pulling his enormous hog up out of his shorts. “So get over here and work it, boy.”

“Cory, man, my name is Cory.”

Joe grinned maliciously. “Your name is cocksucker, you little homo. Now get over here and swallow my shaft!” The strong youth stiffened as if he’d been slapped—but his cock stiffened too; his skin-tight shorts made the fact too obvious to hide. The boy knelt down on the hard cold tiles in front of the larger, more powerful alpha and wrapped his lips around the thick, throbbing head, already oozing precum.

As Cory accepted the huge throbbing rod into his mouth, he felt the top’s hands pressing against his head—and then, in the blink of an eye, he was forced down on the shaft with sudden, irresistible force. Cory hadn’t even had time to inhale before he found himself involuntarily deepthroating the dude.

Joe gripped the punk’s head tightly in his hands, brutally facefucking him as he felt the styling gel the little shit used crunch in his hands. Choking, Cory beat his hands against Joe’s powerful thighs; it was as ineffectual as beating on a tree trunk. Joe grunted with pleasure as he felt the blond boy gagging, the kid’s tongue writhing and scraping against the sensitive rosebud just under the pulsating head…

Finally, with a curse, he abruptly shoved the slut’s head away. Cory fell back, coughing up a huge streamer of drool as he tried to catch his breath. “D-damn,” he gasped, then gagged again. Eventually, he regained control. “Fuck man, that’s a monster cock you got. And yer so fuckin’ strong, dude—ya work out a lot? I mean, I know it’s a lot, but, well, a lot a lot?”

“Yeah,” Joe replied, “Some. Why?”

“Ever get sore, man? Here, hang on…” Cory scrambled to his feet and dived at one of the lockers—an upper one, on the side wall. Swiftly twirling the dial, he opened the heavy steel combination lock and tossed it onto the bench. He opened the locker and partially withdrew a pair of jeans, digging into the back pocket to extract his wallet. As he did so, a balled up pair of socks fell out of the locker. Inside, Joe could also make out some indistinct shapes that seemed to be more clothing, and a pair of loafers—the kid’s post-workout clothing.

The boy turned back, proffering something in his hand that turned out to be a business card. Joe read it with sneering amusement: “Cory Carlisle, licensed massage therapist”—it even had the official license number issued by the state.

The hard-bodied alpha chuckled aloud. “You any good?” he smirked.

“I can show ya—here, lay down on this bench. On yer back, man. I’ll give you and your cock the best massage you’ve ever had.”

“This better be good, boy,” Joe drawled, “I got high standards and I don’t like bein’ lied to by worthless pansies who ain’t got the skill to satisfy me. Ya feelin’ me, boy? You think you got what it takes, you better be prepared to prove it.”

Joe went to the bench and swept the lock off; it landed on the tile floor and clattered to a stop near the socks. He slipped out of his shorts, standing completely nude except for his black Puma kicks, then lay back on the bench. His erect tool rose above him like a thick, trickling flagpole.

For his part, Cory’s electric blue swimsuit had a large moist circle that darkened to navy blue as it expanded outward from his leaking crotch. “Hang-hang on, m-man,” he stuttered in erotic excitement as he plucked frantically at the knot in the suit’s drawstring. Snatching one loose end, he gave a quick, nervous jerk that not only undid the knot, it also pulled the thick nylon cord halfway out of the shorts altogether. “Damn,” Cory muttered as the shorts slid to the floor. Just like Joe, he was now wearing nothing more than his kicks—the white Nikes—and a swollen, dripping erection.

Joe spread his legs as Cory drew near, exposing a small area of the bench between them. Cory knelt there and then slowly crawled upwards, his silky-smooth skin scraping against Joe’s fur as he slid upwards until he way lying directly on top of Joe and looking down into his face, their throbbing dicks nudging and twitching against each other.

Reaching up, Cory placed his hands on Joe’s broad, bulging pectorals and began rubbing them. The boy pressed down firm on the older man’s muscles, curling his fingers into Joe’s dark, wiry chest hair. Joe himself could feel no benefit from the supposed “massage”, but it was evident Cory did. He slowly moved down Joe’s torso, his hands grasping and exploring the body of the anonymous stud. Joe’s hijacked profile showed no name—and Cory had never asked.

It clearly didn’t matter to the fit, well-built faggot. All he was interested in was dick. Well, he was gonna get plenty.

That wasn’t quite accurate, though—he was also interested in Joe’s rock-hard body. He continued to worship it. He worshiped it with his hands, dragging them through dominant top’s body fur as he felt the iron-hard immobility of the alpha’s ripped abs. He also worshiped it with his tongue—he’d started at the nipples, slurping assiduously, before lowering his head towards Joe’s groin. His tongue was now exploring the musky depths of the stranger’s navel.

Joe could feel the slut working his way down his body; he was waiting for the little homo to get back on his dick. He was considering his options.

Should he let this one go? He wanted to waste the cumsucker; he wanted to hurt the little piece of shit so bad—but it wasn’t wise. Even just having sex here was a bad idea; if they were caught, he’d be an immediate suspect in the other murder in the park. And besides, this didn’t feel bad…

Joe made his mind up. He’d give Cory a fair deal. If the boy could get him off—and he had to admit, the queerboy sure knew how to suck a dick; maybe he’d be good enough—he’d leave it at that.

Cory would walk out alive.

When the slut got to Joe’s groin, he braced himself by placing his palms flat on the alpha’s rock-hard thighs. Kneeling on the end of the bench, Joe’s swollen purple dick towered in front of him. As Cory watched, entranced, the thick shaft pulsed visibly; a glittering bead of translucent fluid oozed from the top and slowly trickled down the side.

The punk’s own tool was already hard; this sight merely stiffened it to nearly the point of pain. Knowing that this anonymous stud liked him gagging, Cory took a deep breath before lowering his head onto the throbbing rod. As he went down, he took time to wrap his tongue around the stranger’s cock, savoring the vein-wreathed length as it filled his throat.

Joe’s arms were raised and bent back, his hands behind his head, holding it up so he could watch the blond pansy suck his dick. “That’s it, cunt,” he sneered, “Lick my dick like a good cocksucker.” He shifted his legs, sliding his black Pumas up so he could leverage his hips and pump his stiff pole into the boy’s greedy mouth.

Even though he’d known it was coming, Cory hadn’t known when; Joe’s sudden thrust completely plugged his airway. At the same time, the muscular, aggressive top clenched his fists in the fag’s hair, the golden, stylized spikes somehow still crunchy with gel. Cory found himself as trapped and immobile as if he’d been strapped into an iron cage.

Again, he found himself subjected to a violent skullfuck. Despite his deep breath, his lungs were already beginning to ache; he dug his fingertips into the firm flesh of Joe’s inner thighs with as little impact as if they had been steel. Joe noticed and chuckled maliciously. “Havin’ trouble breathin’, ya cumsuckin’ faggot?” he gloated. “Ok, then—but ya gotta be quick, boy, I expect a lot outta my bitches.”

For a brief moment—Joe actually counted out five seconds—he eased his vise-like grip and let Cory pull his head back. Barely; in fact, he could only pull it back an inch and a half. It was enough to allow him to breathe, but it was messy relief. Still choking and gagging, Cory was coughing up white ropy strands of drool, the thick strings of saliva flowing around Joe’s tool—still stuck deep down the cunt’s throat—and down the boy’s chin to stream to the floor.

“Gag on it, you homo cunt,” Joe sneered. “C’mon, boy, get back on my cock!” Cory had just enough time to get another deep lungful of air before his esophagus was rammed full of pulsating manmeat.

The young blond found his face mashed into the alpha’s groin, the tough, wiry pubic hair scraping his cheeks and forehead. A pair of huge, wrinkled balls slapped jarringly at his chin as the domineering alpha reamed the throat of the well-built youth.

This session lasted longer. Cory’s sinuses were clogged and his frantic five seconds of gasping hadn’t allowed much air past the meat tube wedged in his windpipe; he was running out of oxygen faster than he had earlier. And as a result, panic set in sooner.

The cum-hungry boyslut found himself desperately trying to get the alpha’s dick out of his mouth. It was too much; this dude was both too big and too rough. Cory realized he needed to put the brakes on this one or he could get hurt—but would he get the chance to?

He wasn’t sure he could get free. For the first time, a cold shaft of fear penetrated his warm erotic lust. As hard as his own dick was, as hot as the facefuck action was, the crushing pain in his chest was starting to become the focus of his attention. Cory frantically beat his hands on Joe’s legs before planting them firmly and straining to pull himself up so strongly that his biceps bulged almost to the size of Joe’s.

“Whassa matter, boy?” Joe sneered. He could feel the sperm starting to boil in his testicles; he was getting close. “My dick too much for ya? Tough shit, homo—suck it!”

Cory wasn’t having it. Jerking forcefully, he bucked like a bronco, yanking his head back until Joe released him with an angry grunt. Cory instantly went upright on his knees, gasping for air. He bent forward, instinctively placing one hand on Joe’s broad chest to steady himself as he crawled back to full consciousness.

“F-fuck du-dude,” the kid choked out, “T-too much, man, too much. I charge extra for a happy ending…” He trailed off in an extended coughing fit.

Joe went rigid, staring coldly at the slowly-recovering punk. “You want me to pay to cum?” he said slowly and coldly. Cory, clearly not recognizing the suppressed rage in that flat, icy tone, replied with an obnoxious, whining tone, “Fuck yeah, asshole, ya think I give a massage for free? Ya gotta pay to get off.”

“You fucking sack of shit whore,” Joe responded evenly just before he lunged upwards. Jamming his left hand into Cory’s armpit, he shoved the boy up and to the right, into the open locker. At the same time, he brought his right arm up and slammed his forearm flat into the locker door, driving it closed and smashing Cory’s head.

With a loud squawk, Cory fell to the floor, bleeding from both sides of his head where the sharp metal edges of the locker door on one side and the frame on the other had cut into his skin. Sobbing and crying, the boy began to crawl away from his assailant across the cold tile floor.

Sitting up on the bench, Joe looked down at the stupid little fairy squealing and writhing on the floor like a pig and felt his body flood with rage. The whore had actually expected him to pay to cum. He needed to learn what a terrible mistake he’d made—and then Joe saw how to teach him.

Bending down, he scooped up both the balled-up socks and the padlock. It took no more than ten seconds to free a single sock and stick the padlock inside. Once he had, Joe stood up and walked over to Cory.

The young blond homo had actually managed to crawl some distance in the brief time that had passed. Still sobbing and in severe pain, he could hear the footsteps of Joe’s black kicks relentlessly coming for him. “Don’t you fuckin’ touch me, you psycho!” he screeched. “I’m gonna call the fuckin’ cops, you asshole!”

Standing over him, Joe swung the weighted sock like a blackjack. On the floor, Cory peered up at him with horror. He could see nothing but implacable anger in Joe’s face. “P-please, man,” he whispered hoarsely, realizing with cold terror that he was looking death straight in the face, “I-I didn’t mean it—don’t, dude, please god no, don’t fuckin’ do this; I’ll do whatever ya want, just lemme live, man, oh fuck oh please—“

Curling his scruffy, handsome face into a contemptuous leer, Joe swung his arm and delivered a vicious blow to Cory’s back. The heavy metal lock smashed directly into a rib, shattering it. The boywhore screamed and writhed like a worm on hot pavement as splinters of bone tore through his innards. “Fuck!” he screeched, scrambling over the tile, “Please god, stop!”

Towering over the crawling faggot, Joe stomped his foot in the middle of Cory’s back, driving the wind out of the unfortunate youth and leaving the tread of his sneaker embedded in the cunt’s smooth flesh as a bruise. Swinging the sock around in his hand like a sling, Joe increased the momentum of the heavy metal lock, then abruptly bent down, his powerful arm circling high above his head as he slammed the improvised weapon down.

Cory knew it was coming and tried to move but Joe’s foot was pinning him to the floor; the best he could do was twist to his right. It turned out to be a serious mistake. The homemade blackjack, instead of hitting center body mass, made contact with Cory’s left arm, halfway between the shoulder and the elbow. The chunk of metal, moving with irresistible force, snapped the humerus like a chicken wing.

Cory shrieked in agony and flailed, his broken arm jerking limply and grotesquely but was unable to get out from under the sadistic alpha. Even in the depths of his fear and pain, the handsome young slut was still aware of his assailant’s erection—he couldn’t have forgotten it even if he’d wanted; Joe’s precum was dripping on his back in burning drops like melted wax.

Oh shit, this dude wasn’t just bashing the fuck outta him, he was gettin’ off on doing it—

Cory’s futile thrashing on the cold tiles became even more intense as his panicked squeals rose in pitch. “Goddam, yer a mouthy little fairy whore, aintcha?” Joe snarled in anger, taking his foot off the kid’s back. Cory’s faint relief at his release was short-lived, though; Joe had merely freed his foot to deliver a vicious kick to the boy’s waist—one strong enough to flip Cory onto his back.

The whore could look directly up into the hard face of his torturer; the rage that he saw there so overwhelmed him with terror that his bleatings and mewlings tapered off into a subdued sobbing. The depths of his abuse and humiliation were obvious—as was his lust.

The little fucker was hard as a rock. As he was getting the living fuck beaten out of him, Cory had remained erect, and the glaze of slime smeared on the head of his dick showed that he’d even dripped out some precum of his own.

“Yeah, ya worthless sack of shit, that’s what I thought,” the muscled alpha panted, his broad furry chest heaving with exertion. “Goddam fag already knows it’s such a useless piece a’ garbage it gets off on bein’ treated like one.”

He knelt down leaning directly over Cory’s face. “Guess what, cunt? If ya liked that, it’s yer lucky day. I’m gonna take you out like the trash you are, bitch—and it’s gonna hurt.” As he bent further down, the prostrate youth, frozen in horror, could smell the mansweat on his killer’s body, laden with adrenaline and testosterone; even in an extremity of terror, his cock responded by swelling and darkening. Joe spit contemptuously in the boy’s face before he stood back up; Cory’s only reaction came from his oozing dick.

“C’mon, ya homo punk, time for shit to get real,” Joe drawled as he rose again, his large shadow stretching ominously across the battered youth cowering at his feet. The words pierced Cory’s mind with a cold shaft of fear. From deep within his soul, the crumbled remains of his arrogance found one last sliver of spirit—just enough to make him protest.

“N-no…” the blond boy whispered. “D-don’t. No. Please…”

Then, seeing the rage darkening the cruel alpha’s face, he realized he’d made another mistake. He’d set the psycho off again; he could see the murderous light of wrath building in the towering stud’s eyes and his resistance collapsed immediately. He started weeping uncontrollably, in fear of the inevitable blow—he could already see Joe’s arm moving back for another swing of the blackjack. And so Cory made yet another error in judgment—he seemed to be involuntarily digging his own grave—by raising his right arm to ward off the blow, holding his hand up, palm side out.

This time, Joe crushed the kid’s hand, snapping three of his fingers like twigs.

Cory’s shrill shriek should have echoed off the tile walls of the locker room, but his throat was so hoarse and ragged with screaming that all he was able to emit was a loud, cracking wheeze of agony. The whoreboy lay flat on his back, kicking and trembling in agony as tears streamed down his pain-wracked face. In a reflexive attempt at escape, he flexed his legs, trying to get some traction with the heels of his white Nikes. His arms, of course, were useless now; the punk had been brutally immobilized.

But he still hadn’t lost his hard-on.

Joe noticed and grinned evilly. “Goddam, you queer-ass cunt, you sure fuckin’ loved bein’ treated like the sack of shit you are. Almost as much as I love treatin’ ya that way. Lessee if we can amp that shit up, huh?” And with that, he wheeled and walked back towards Cory’s open locker.

The writhing lump of bruised and beaten flesh that had been a handsome young massage therapist twenty minutes ago still lay gasping and sobbing on the floor. During the brutal assault, he’d managed to crawl along the floor for a good distance; as a result, when Joe strode away, he passed beyond Cory’s line of sight. The suffering punk, shuddering and moaning on the cold floor tiles, had an idea that the buff sadist had bent down to retrieve something. He heard Joe give a very faint grunt of exertion, followed by the sound of fabric ripping.

He had no idea what was happening, though, till Joe returned. In the killer’s big, strong hands dangled a length of cord. It took Cory’s traumatized mind a while to realize he was looking at the draw cord that had been torn out of his own swimsuit.

Some part of him expected his legs to be bound for further torture; he felt a dull sense of surprise when the cord was looped around his neck instead. The cord tightened and Cory, moaning and crying, expected to be strangled instantly.

Instead, he found himself being dragged roughly across the floor by the cord around his throat. His legs kicked and flailed in protest, but his arms were no help. The shattered left arm trailed limply at his side; he could still move his right arm, but the crushed hand, looking like a pale, mangled starfish, was utterly useless. His own inert body weight had caused the cord to squeeze his throat to the point that he was unable to speak, but with extreme effort, he was still able to breathe.

Since he was being dragged by his head, more or less, Cory was unable to see where he was being taken; he could only feel the tiles on his bare skin. Within seconds, though, the dragging had stopped, and was replaced by something worse. He was lifted up off the ground by the noose around his neck briefly before a flat bar dug into his shoulders and started scraping its way down his smooth back. Hearing Joe strain as he jerked on the cord, Cory understood—vaguely, his air was now completely cut off—that the hulking sadistic killer was dragging him backwards up onto the wooden bench.

And then it was done. The constriction around his neck relaxed. His aching, beaten body was lying limply on the bench, his legs spread. His right arm was curled on his smooth, broad chest while his left hung at an unnatural angle over the edge. The pain-twisted, suffering youth coughed up a thick wad of phlegm as he gasped desperately and rapidly.

Cory was too stunned, too beaten down by this point to wonder what was coming next; he could only hope it wouldn’t hurt anymore. Even if it meant death, he wanted to the pain to end.

He was sadly disappointed.

For his part, Joe had kept his eye on the pansy’s cock as he’d dragged the pile of shit across the floor. It had continued to darken, becoming so engorged that it looked like an eggplant. As the buff, toned alpha had tightened his biceps and manhandled the cocksucker up onto the bench, he’d momentarily wondered if the little bitch was gonna cum right there. No matter how much pain he inflicted on the cringing queerboy, the fag seemed to love it.

Now it was time for Joe to get what he’d come for.

Cory moaned slightly as Joe parted his legs, his large hands gripping the soft smooth flesh of the boy’s inner thighs. Semi-conscious at best, the punk was aware of the movement, but little else—

—until Joe shoved the entire length of his gigantic, pulsing rod up Cory’s tender fuckhole in a single, unlubed thrust.

The searing, slashing agony in his anus shifted the homo slut from semi-consciousness to full consciousness in the blink of an eye. His emerald-green eyes widened, huge and round like platters, deeply ringed with shock and physical trauma. He screeched, a high, unpleasant squeaking sound, as his body shuddered and jerked in protest. Instinctively, Cory began beating at his rapist with his right hand; the action made the jagged ends of his broken fingers grind together, intensifying the pain he was in.

“Quit fightin’ me, ya stupid fuckin’ faggot!” Joe barked in fury. Doubling his fist, he drove it into Cory’s jaw with the all the power of a horse’s kick. The boy’s head rocked back, slamming into the bench as his mouth snapped shut with such sudden violence that he bit through his tongue.

Spitting up blood, Cory coughed and squealed in agony and abject terror as Joe roughly pulled his thick hog back up out of the punk’s colon, keeping in only the massive mushroom tip. Joe repositioned his kicks on the floor for better leverage and immediately plunged his shaft deep into the cunt’s soft, squelching guts. Another agonized screech rose from Cory’s swollen, split lips.

“Goddam it, I’m tired of lissenin’ to ya squealin’ like a pig, you worthless cum-guzzlin’ homo!” Joe snarled, “Guess it’s time to make you shut the fuck up!”

Leaning forward, Joe grabbed at the loose ends of the draw cord still draped around Cory’s throat. With a single violent jerk, he pulled it so taut that it immediately sank into the skin. The hard-bodied killer yanked tightly on the cord as he brutally reamed out the kid’s fuckhole. Luckily, it was thirty inches of black woven nylon, well able to stand up to the strain.

Cory, on the other was less able to cope. His frantic gurgling had been cut short and his mangled hand flapped uselessly at his throat. His bulging eyes glittered with highlights of terror and excruciating pain so intense they bordered on insanity. As his hard, firm young body shuddered under the assault, the punk’s dazed brain tried to understand how an offer of a massage and a quick blowjob had turned into rape, nightmarish torture and murder.

Joe pounded his tool into Cory’s torn, bleeding ass, yelling “Fuck! Yeah! Take it, cunt!” with each thrust, the raging lust in his voice enhanced by the swift slapping sound of flesh on flesh. He was pulling the cord with such force that tendons were starting to stand out, first in his neck, then his forearms. The cord itself was so deep in the kid’s throat that it couldn’t be seen.

What it was doing to Cory could be seen very well. The youth’s face was a deep blue, darkening to purple so quickly that it was impossible to tell if any bruises were present—everything was the color of a bruise. Even his huge, panic-struck eyes were blotched with ruptured blood vessels. The only part of him not turning dark was the thick foamy spittle trickling around the sides of his swollen, protruding tongue.

Cory’s hard, tight body jerking and convulsing under him, Joe shuddered with pleasure as the dying fag’s rectum caressed the sensitive engorged head of his cock. The sadistic alpha chuckled maliciously; the stupid little motherfucker had turned out to be a good massage therapist after all—at least, he was good at massaging Joe’s dick in his death throes.

And as Cory twitched and kicked, his thick cock was still erect; in fact, it seemed to stiffer than ever and twitching rapidly in tempo to Joe’s relentless ass-pounding. With each forceful pump of the murderous top’s hips, the boy’s dick slapped against Joe’s ripped abs and sprayed a fine mist of precum over his chest fur.

Cory himself was past sensation at this point; part of him knew that he was dying full of cock and that was the part keeping his dick hard. The rest of him knew that he was dying full of pain and that part wanted to die. There was no more terror, there was almost no more Cory; all that was left was the pain—and the lust.

And at the extreme end of oxygen starvation, even those two primal drives were losing their grip; massive brain damage was sending Cory’s smooth body, muscled and slick with sweat forced from his pores in metabolic trauma, into violently erratic convulsions. He wasn’t quite as large or strong as Joe, but his lithe body was powerful enough that the hard-bodied sex killer had to clamp down and ride Cory into death like he was taming a horse.

As the dying cunt kicked away his last few seconds on Earth, his internal muscles convulsed as well, creating a rippling effect in his colon that almost seemed to draw suction. It was as if Cory’s mindless, flailing body was trying to suck the cum right out of Joe’s rod.

It was working.

Joe could feel his hot sperm starting to bubble in his puckered sack; the thick tube running along the underside of his shaft seemed to tingle with electrical fire. He was close, he was so fucking close…

It was time. He was gonna blow. He was gonna seed this worthless faggot meat. His black Pumas slipped back as he bent forward, his full body, heavy with the weight of his muscled mass pinning the thrashing boycunt under him, still impaled on his cock. As Cody’s swollen, pulsing dick slid moistly between their flat firm bellies, Joe wrapped both ends of the nylon cord around his right hand and placed his left hand flat on the punk’s shuddering forehead.

Then, straight-arming the kid’s forehead, he gave the cord a single, swift yank so brutal it snapped the woven nylon. It also snapped Cory’s neck.

The popping sounds of shattering bone once again echoed in the locker room. It was accompanied with another round of violent physical convulsions in the entwined male bodies on the bench. Cory bucked and spasmed as an electrochemical surge flashed though his nervous system; his arms and legs contracted involuntarily, causing the corpse to wrap its legs around Joe’s waist, white Nikes helplessly kicking in midair. The meat had even swung the broken arm up and around Joe’s back.

At the same time, the release the dying homo’s dick had been craving was finally granted; Joe felt the hot spurts of semen pumped into the fur that lined his sculpted chest. The little motherfucker must have been full of cum; it kept spewing and spewing. Even after Joe had uttered an inarticulate, strangled cry and flooded the kid’s guts with boiling manspunk, Cory’s still-erect shaft was spitting out ropy strands of jizz across his own motionless chest.

The boy’s body had one last wrenching spasm that pulled the last drop of semen out of Joe’s still-throbbing hog. The alpha thought the kid’s phenomenal death load was over; he raised himself up and felt one last warm splash, this one under his chin, caught in his facial stubble.

The heaving, gasping alpha slowly withdrew his still-dripping cock from the corpse. Standing up, he took a moment to catch his breath and to guiltily scope out the situation. He’d given in to his anger, and that was a bad thing; this snuff was way too close—and too recent—to the other one in the park.

On the other hand, he’d needed a workout, and he’d gotten one. Scooping up his gym bag, he padded off to the showers.

Toweling himself off after he got out of the body, Joe redressed and took a glance around. If he hadn’t known how absolutely deserted the place would be, the snuff would have been the height of insanity. The corpse, sprawled on its back with the legs spread, the soles of the white Nikes facing forward, was at least partially visible from the locker room entrance. It was necessary to take a few more steps into the room to get a clearer look, to see the snapped arm or the congested head, now fading to a dusky blue, hanging at odd, impossible angles.

Still, it had all worked out. For Joe, it was a happy ending.

The pool area was quiet, but not silent. Empty, but not motionless, refracted glints of light danced across the walls and faint slopping sounds coming from the water.

And then it wasn’t empty.

The next day, Joe was dressing for work; he’d gotten a call to come in. He’d flipped on the TV in the background, not paying much attention until a certain story attracted his notice.

It was a mention of a body found at the rec center that caught his ear. “The body was that of a young Caucasian male,” the anchor intoned. “The report came in of an accidental drowning but when paramedics pulled the man from the water, he was completely nude. Police aren’t saying much beyond the fact that there were clear signs of physical violence; however, inside sources have hinted that the victim suffered multiple sexual assaults. In light of the death of Bradford DeLaney III, found raped and strangled in a bathroom in the same park, authorities are now saying—“

Joe shut the TV off, then let the remote fall. For the first time in a long time, something had taken the alpha stud by surprise. He tried to reconcile the scene he’d left and the one the TV had described; it simply didn’t compute.

Andy stood impatiently in the gym parking lot. He’d told the dude when he’d be done working out; in fact, he’d showered much more quickly (though no less thoroughly) so he’d be able to meet the guy on time and not have to stand around waiting.

Andy had gotten a hit on an online hookup app after work, while on his way to the gym. In his late twenties, the well-built young man took good care of his firm, lightly-furred body. He was bi but not a bottom; his broad chest and thick biceps had towered over many dudes who were glad to get on their knees and slurp his hog.

Tonight was gonna be extra fun, if the guy ever showed up. The pic he’d been sent made his dick hard; the thought of that hard, scruffy face chugging his cock…

The youth snapped out of his reverie. It was getting dark, and even though the weather was warm for the time of year, a chill was setting in as the sun went down. Where the fuck was this cocksucker?

The “cocksucker” was actually already there. Parked at the end of the lot, Joe watched the boy carefully, making sure he was alone.

He’d decided to change his MO for a bit, just to change things up. Well, that, and throw off any investigation. Some of his recent kills had attracted attention…

This time, instead of posting an ad and waiting for a response, he’d gone searching actively for a victim. And while he was trolling sluts online, he came across Andy’s profile and he was intrigued.

The pic showed a handsome kid in his late twenties, his almond eyes clearly showing his Asian heritage but the glossy black bangs across his forehead also hinted at something warmer, almost Mediterranean. The boy was fit, with a light dusting of dark hair down his thick, muscled legs and up his smooth, flat belly.

His profile said he was just looking for head, maybe a little foot worship. But it had to be discreet. He was looking for a cumdump on the DL.

Joe chuckled. He’d turn the fucker into a cumdump himself. And then he’d turn him into meat.

He sent a pic of himself, along with a message that he’d love to suck Andy’s dick. After the punk was dead, Joe would be taking his phone anyway. And so, as usual, he’d gotten to the meeting place early and kept a sharp eye out for any red flags. But everything seemed copacetic; his hunter’s senses detected no danger.

He got out of his car and sauntered slowly towards the boy.

Andy heard the heavy footfalls and looked up to see a tall, hulking man approaching. The dude was amazingly buff, and dressed to emphasize it. The strapping older stud was taller and better built than he was—not by much, but enough. Hard to believe a muscular, masculine guy like that was into giving head.

Joe sighted the kid right away; he was still in his workout gear. The hard-bodied youth was wearing a gray t-shirt that fit tightly across his broad chest. Beneath that was a pair of black, knee-length polyester shorts that displayed the muscle punk’s firm, furry calves to perfection. Over all of it, he sported a shiny blue nylon running jacket with the sleeves shoved up past his elbows to let him show off his smooth forearms.

The boy’s legs descended into pair of Nikes, the black and grey zigzag stipes showing that they were Fingertrap Max style. They looked clean and new. His white ped socks were just barely visible below his ankles.

Joe himself had gone with a classic rough-trade look—after all, he was luring in a top this time. The bait needed to be appropriate to the prey; he needed to look like a slut ready to go anywhere private for sex.

After all, in a way, he was.

He was wearing a white wifebeater at least a couple of sizes too small; it wrapped so snugly around his rock-hard torso as to be almost transparent. His tight jeans, cinched with a thick leather belt, were clean but faded and worn, the ragged cuffs tucked into a pair of beige construction boots, laced but untied. Like his prey, he wore a jacket—Joe’s a simple black leather aviator jacket.

Andy grinned with pleasure as the hot older dude came close. “You Kevin?” he asked, using the handle Joe had assumed for this kill.

“Yeah, you Andy?” Joe replied, letting his eyes slide over the boy’s body like a physical caress—making it obvious, luring the punk in. As he did, he noted details—the kid’s black sports watch and his wristband, naturally, but what caught his attention most the thick leather choker the boy wore around his neck.

Joe grinned. It was perfect. Even had an ornamental metal ring in the center.

Andy misunderstood the grin, interpreting it as eagerness. As a cocky young alpha, he went into full swagger mode. “So, man, ya ready to drain my load? Shit, dude, I bet you can’t even take my dick!” Joe grunted and snarled faintly, with just enough restraint that it could be read as submissive.

Andy smiled; throatfucking this stud was gonna be so hot. But he needed to get moving; he’d wasted too much time out here waiting. Jake was gonna finish up soon. “C’mon, man,” he said, “get in your car and follow me. We gotta be quick; once my roommate finishes up his routine and hits the shower, he’s gonna come straight home.”

With that, the boy turned and got into his truck, a red Ford F250. Joe followed him out of the lot in his own car, making sure to hang far enough back that it wouldn’t be obvious to any witnesses that there was a connection between the two vehicles. It wasn’t very difficult to keep the huge fire-engine-red pickup in sight, anyway.

The trip was short; within a few blocks, the truck had pulled of a side street into a parking lot. Behind the lot was a series of low, one-story units stretching back away from the street. Andy waited at the curb as Joe parked. “This way,” he said, leading him deep into the complex.

They were all small condos and seemed to be built with some small variation of floor plan. Their front doors faced each other across the small walkway that extended perpendicularly back from the street. The farther they walked in, the more the sounds of traffic faded.

Andy went right to the end, the last unit on the left. Beyond was a high, impervious wooden fence marking the end of the property. He opened the door and let Joe in.

On the inside, the condo was small. The living room was nicely furnished but the dining area was taken up with a computer desk, with a small two-seat café table shoved into a corner. Beyond the tiny galley kitchen a corridor ran back to the bedrooms; on one side of the corridor was the bathroom. The other side was lined with windows looking out onto a side yard the size of a postage stamp, hemmed in by the blind brick wall of the neighboring unit.

Two small, identical bedrooms in the back completed the set-up. Andy took Joe down the hall to the one on the right. It was furnished with a queen-sized bed, a nightstand and lamp, a dresser and a chest of drawers; there wasn’t room for much else. The muscular punk’s workout gear was scattered around the room; everything from gym shirts and shorts to dumbbells to shoes.

Joe was thrilled. It was almost too easy.

Andy took off his running jacket. Glancing around, he snatched a wire hanger from a pile on the dresser. “Take off your clothes, cocksucker,” he commanded as he turned and opened the closet, using the hanger to dispose of his jacket. “I want ya naked when I skullfuck ya.” Closing the door, he turned back to Joe. “Yeah, you’ll like that, won’t—“

He never saw the blow coming. Joe’s doubled-up fist caught the youth square on the jaw with a swift rabbit-punch, slamming the boy’s head back so hard it punched a hole in the hollow-core door. Andy had just enough time to be aware of a blur before a painful explosion of darkness put his lights out.

The lights came back up slowly, each increment of consciousness accompanied by one of pain. His jaw ached and his arms were twisted painfully above his head; they seemed to be restrained by some sort of thick strap. As Andy became aware if his surroundings, he realized he was tied down on his back on his own bed with his hands bound to the headboard.

Looming over him, the muscled stud leered down at him with an evil grin. There was a hint of such malicious glee in the dude’s handsome, scruffy face that Andy felt the first twinge of fear.

But he damn sure wasn’t gonna let this psycho know about it.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the youth snarled in anger. “Dude, you made a huge mistake. When I get outta this, I’m gonna fuck you up so bad, you hear? I’m gonna—“

“I ain’t no faggot!” Andy barked in anger. “I’ll facefuck a dude, but I ain’t never taken a guy’s load, asswipe!”

“You have sex with guys, you’re a fag,” the brawny alpha hissed menacingly, “and as for taking a load, we’re gonna fix that problem right now.” As he spoke, he slipped off his black leather aviator jacket with a shrug of his powerful shoulders, laying it carefully on top of the chest of drawers where it would remain undamaged by the evening’s activities. In the process, the stack of wire hangers was dislodged, falling to the floor.

Andy grunted and kicked. Still fully dressed, his Nikes caught on the sheets, pulling the corners from under the mattress as he struggled frantically to free himself. As his panicked eyes swept over the ominous figure of his crazed online hookup, the boy realized that “Kevin’s” belt was missing. His jeans were still glued tightly to the older man’s thick, bulging thighs, but the belt…

That was what was binding his hands. Andy remembered it; a two-inch thick strap of leather. Strong as he was, he was no chance of breaking it. He wasn’t gonna be able to get free.

As the hulking stranger slowly unzipped his fly and withdrew a massive, throbbing tube of flesh nearly eight inches long, Andy realized on a subconscious level that he was about to get raped and there was nothing he could do about it. He gulped in fear but was still too arrogant to believe that such a thing could happen to him—after all, dudes wanted his dick, not the other way around.

“Get the fuck away from me, you psycho,” he gasped as he jerked his arms in an instinctive attempt to defend himself. “You ain’t stickin’ nothin’ in me, you fuckin’ crazy-ass homo!”

Joe pulled Andy’s shirt up around his neck. Smiling cheerfully, he slammed his fist into the kid’s flat, furry belly like a piledriver. The well-built youth doubled up in pain, his breath forced from him in a loud, agonized grunt.

As his victim writhed surprised agony on the bed, Joe took a moment to position himself between the boy’s legs. With one swift, smooth jerk, he yanked the punk’s gym shorts and black boxers down simultaneously, leaving them around the kid’s ankles. They’d hold his feet together perfectly when Joe got between his legs to fuck him. And it was just about time to get started…

The roommate was coming home. Joe realized he had to act quickly. Standing up, he peeled his tight wifebeater off and, wadding it into a ball, forced Andy’s mouth open and jammed it inside as a gag—little piece of shit wasn’t gonna be able to warn his buddy.

Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t gonna try. Joe was counting on it. Picking up a small 10-pound hex dumbbell, Joe flipped the light switch off and stood silently behind the open door to Andy’s bedroom.

As he went into full hunt mode, his pulsing cock started dripping. The erotic excitement of stalking truly unaware prey was almost overwhelming…

“Andy!” called out a young, strong voice. “Hey, dude, were are ya? I know you’re home, fucker, your car’s outside, so quit tryin’ to play games!”

As Andy heard Jake’s voice, he became more agitated. He kicked and thrashed on the bed, thick, muffled grunts emerging soddenly from his gagged mouth. He was helpless to warn his friend of the impending danger, and he knew it. His only hope was in somehow alerting Jake so his bud could get away and get help—he didn’t know his desperate flailings were only luring Jake deeper into the trap.

As Joe waited silently, a shadow filled the golden rectangle of light spilling in from the open door. A hand reached out and switched on the light as the innocent youth entered the room. “What the fuck, dude!” Jake cried out in the split second before Joe lunged out from behind the door and cracked the boy across the back of the head with the metal weight.

Jake grunted and whirled around. Joe’s attuned killer’s mind flashed an image of the kid’s face—buzz-cut blond hair that grew a little longer on top, turning into a fauxhawk, broad cheeks below large pale blue eyes. His wide, full lips were surrounded by a faint but wiry sandy-blond goatee.

The kid’s body was even more chiseled and defined than Andy’s was. He’d evidently already slipped off a hoodie pullover; it was still in his hand. The cutoff t-shirt he wore did nothing to hide his ripped abs, nor did the metallic gray ball shorts fail to highlight the perfectly-formed legs rising up out of his gray and white Nike Flight Falcon hightops. The young stud had clearly just come home from his own workout.

Joe took it all in with the space of about a second and a half—the length of time it took for Jake’s body to react to the knockout blow. Reaching one thickly-muscled arm to the back of his head with a confused expression in his face, the boy’s eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled helplessly to the floor.

The faint, subdued moan that emerged from Andy’s blocked mouth was all that was left of his despairing wail at the realization that his friend could no longer save him.

“Fuck yeah, dude,” Joe laughed in pleasure, “I get a twofer. Your buddy is straight? Too bad—sucks to be him.”

With an evil chuckle, the powerful alpha began stripping the strong, brawny youth. “And it’s about to suck even worse…”

With wide, helpless eyes, Andy watched the psycho stranger peel Jake’s body nude. Joe found that the second young man was as tall as he was. He wasn’t quite as muscled, but Joe was still glad he’d gotten the drop on the bitch or there might have been a struggle. Not that Joe was worried about taking down either of these two fuckers in a fight; he just didn’t want the neighbors alerted.

After all, he was gonna be here a while. His plans for the evening had just gotten a lot more detailed.

Jake’s firm, smooth body had only the faintest hint of golden peachfuzz dusting the silky skin stretched tautly over his muscles. Grabbing the waistband of the cunt’s shorts, Joe yanked them off roughly, taking a pair of green and blue striped boxers off at the same time. He pulled them over Jake’s hightops, leaving the kid his Nikes.

Looking around swiftly, Joe noticed the pile of hangers that had been dislodged from the dresser. He reached out and grabbed on, quickly untwisting it to make a long length of wire. Standing over Jake, the sadistic alpha flipped the boy’s limp form on his face and pinned his arms behind his back. With a couple of rapid movements, he soon re-twisted the wire around Jake’s wrists in a simple but extremely effective binding. Now all he needed was something for the feet…

There—draped over the closet doorknob. A jump rope; perfect. In a flash, it was impenetrably wound around the young stud’s legs, just above his gray Nikes.

With a loud grunt, Joe dragged the unconscious boy to the bed. Andy’s queen-sized bed was against the wall on one side; Andy was tied to the other, leaving a space between him and the wall. It took some effort—the buff motherfucker weighed almost 200 pounds—but Joe was able to toss Jake over Andy’s thrashing body. The blond punk hit the wall with a thump, falling limply back onto the bed.

Stripped to the waist, Joe strode to the drawers where his aviator jacket lay. Digging into the pocket, he fished out his pack of smokes and lit one, turning back to the two helpless youths lying bound side-by-side on the bed.

Andy, still fully conscious, stared up at the hulking sadist he’d unwittingly let into his home. A handsome, arrogant punk, he was unable to fully comprehend the implications of his situation; he only knew that he was in serious trouble. What defined “trouble” was something his mind shied away from…

As he jerked vainly on the bed, Andy could feel Jake’s muscled, insensate form next to him. The struggling youth was in a fair amount of discomfort; the wadded-up shirt in his mouth filled his sinuses with the sour tang of his assailant’s sweat while the rough leather belt was cutting into the skin at his wrists.

But the cigarette was what angered him. He didn’t smoke and didn’t want his room polluted. It was a stupid thing to fixate on, given the situation, but the hot young stud wasn’t in a position to think rationally. There was little he could do to stop it, but he did what he could—it consisted of kicking and thrashing as loud grunts of protest emerged thickly from his gagged mouth.

Joe tapped his ash on the boy’s flat, furry belly. “What’s wrong, bitch? Ya not inta smoke?” With that, he exhaled a cloud into Andy’s face and dropped the smoldering butt, grinding it out on the carpet with his heavy construction boot.

The bound youth’s outraged grunting increased in pitch and tempo, tripping a warning in Joe’s killer brain. “Goddammit, faggot, you’re squeakin’ too much—shut the fuck up!” He slammed his fist into Andy’s jaw with wide, roundhouse punch that knocked the kid’s head back. The force of the blow was so strong, it actually knocked the balled-up shirt free of Andy’s mouth.

The young Asian stud coughed violently as his airway was unexpectedly cleared. He blinked in confusion, shuddering in pain from the impact on his jaw. As his vision cleared, the alpha top was standing over him, his incredibly well-sculpted torso outlined by the light in the far corner.

More ominously, the light also illuminated the stranger’s huge, fully-erect dick. As Andy watched in almost hypnotic horror, he could see it visibly throb, forcing small clear drops from the swollen, purple head in a steady stream.

Joe’s smile became deeper, more shark-like as he climbed on the bed. “So you ain’t had anyone up yer fuckhole yet, huh? What kinda worthless fag are ya, cunt? Gonna fix that for ya right now, dude—after all, ya don’t wanna die a virgin, do ya?”

“What?” Andy yelped. The bald, cold mention of death shocked him to his core.

While he tried to process it, Joe squirmed between his legs. Suddenly, Andy found Joe on top of him, his own legs wrapped around his tormentor’s slick, hard flanks and held in place by the polyester running shorts around his ankles.

When he’d slipped those shorts on that afternoon, he’d had no idea that they’d be used to facilitate his rape later that day.

All thoughts of clothing or his day—or pretty much anything—were driven from Andy’s mind when Joe brutally rammed his thick, erect shaft up the kid’s virgin-tight asshole. The terrible, rending pain in his sphincter, the horrific slashing sensation in his colon, claimed his entire attention.

He couldn’t scream. It was too much, too intense. He tried, inhaling deeply and doing his damnedest to shriek at the top of his voice, but the agony shifted his exertions to overdrive and all he could accomplish was a loud, gurgling wheeze.

Flopping back on the bed and shuddering in excruciating pain, Andy had no choice but to submit to his attacker’s cock. As his body was wracked with violent rape, he somehow became aware of a commotion to his side.

Jake was waking up.

The hot straight boy came to in an unimaginable nightmare. Bound and helpless, he fought his way to consciousness through waves of crushing pain in his head. As he became aware of himself and his surroundings, he realized that he was tied up and on his back on a bed. The next thing that worked into his aching awareness was noise and activity to his immediate right. He could feel hard, muscular limbs thrashing sweatily against him and hear an agonized squealing, like that of a stuck pig.

It took a while for him to register that the source of the sound was his roommate being viciously assaulted. And even then, his mainstream jock mentality was utterly incapable of understanding that Andy was being cruelly raped. Jake knew nothing more than his own helplessness and Andy’s mewling agony.

His sharp, darting eyes spied a screwdriver on the nightstand. Andy had used it to tighten up a loose screw on his weight set, never imagining the untold horrors in store when, finished with the tool, he tossed it heedlessly aside. Joe seized on it like a gift.

Slipping the long steel shank of the screwdriver through the decorative ring in the unfortunate youth’s choker, Joe began twisting it like a garrote. Each revolution of the screwdriver drew the thick leather band tighter and tighter around Andy’s neck…

The boy gave a terrified yelp before his air was closed off for good. Jake was still groggy from the blow to the back of his head; he had no idea what was happening, but he recognized the panic and fear in his buddy’s stifled cry. He could feel Andy’s sweaty, muscled legs thrashing in terror; despite his pinned ankles, the bound youth was unintentionally flailing against his trapped roommate in his hysteric frenzy.

And it was a frenzy. It was finally sinking in; the cocky punk was realizing that this was gonna be worse than bad—he could die.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d just met an anonymous hookup online so he could get a quick BJ before his roommate got home.

And now he was tied to the bed, getting raped and strangled—and Jake was bound, nude and struggling, right next to him. Watching him get fucked.

Watching him die.

Clenching his hands into fists, Andy jerked wildly against the rough leather belt wrapped around the metal headboard but all he succeeded in doing was scraping his wrists bloody. He didn’t notice the pain; it was negligible compare the huge shaft tearing into his guts, reaming his colon relentlessly. As his hard body heaved and jerked under the violent sexual assault, his own long cock bounced and slapped against his belly. Much like his wrists, the fact that he was slowly getting erect also escaped his notice.

He was able to experience more than the assfuck, though. His own leather choker was sinking into his throat, gradually and incrementally. The first few turns of the makeshift garrote had been swift, done to cut his air off and shut him up quickly.

After that, Joe was more deliberate. Resting his full weight on that of the warm, furry kid beneath him, the cruel killer took his time with slow half-twists of the screwdriver, watching the black leather band slowly disappear into the puckered skin around it. But then, a distraction—

“What the fuck, man?” Jake squawked, terror giving his voice a high pitch that caused his attempt at a threatening growl to fail miserably. “What’s goin’ on? Andy? Dude? What the fuck is happening?” His voice shook with impending tears.

Turning back, he hocked up a wad of phlegm and spat it into Andy’s darkening face. “Course, I’ll have already blown a load by then, so I’m gonna have to be a little more…inventive with you. So pay attention, you queer-ass cunt; what’s happenin’ now is just gonna be foreplay to you.”

Jake gasped out loud as the brutal killer grinned and continued to pump his shaft up Andy’s torn hole. As his buddy’s legs flopped raggedly against his own, the well-built boy struggled furiously—but fruitlessly—against the wire that had been wrapped multiple times around his wrists.

He didn’t accept the situation without protest, of course. “You’re a fuckin’ lunatic!” he screamed in pure terror. “I ain’t gay! Andy ain’t gay! We’re just roommates, asswipe; we’ve known each other since high school!”

Joe laughed contemptuously as he reached down and forced Andy’s head roughly to the right. “Look at yer friend, fag,” he hissed into the boy’s swelling, horror-filled face, “lookit him good when he finds out…”

The sadistic alpha whipped his head back round to Jake, beaming with malevolent glee. “You ain’t gay, you cocksucking queerboy? Huh? And this cunt ain’t no cum-gobblin’ homo either, huh? I met him on a gay app, bitch, lookin’ for someone to suck his dick. He’s a faggot; you live with him, so yer a faggot, too. I mean, it only makes sense, right? So quit squealin’ you homo pig, yer gonna die on my cock soon enough.”

Andy heard the words but didn’t process them. He was suffering enough already. A raging fire burned within his broad chest; all the time he’d spent building up his strong pecs had actually increased his ability to retain oxygen. Joe was right, it was gonna take him longer to die—and every second of it was gonna be horrible agony…

The pain in his chest was a hot, fiery pain. The pain in his throat was a cruel, crushing pain. The pain in his head was a pounding, pressurized pain.

The pain in his cock was white-hot and electric.

As his face darkened and his tongue began to protrude, lubed by foamy saliva, his dying brain was swept into a vortex of pain in which his own rock-hard rod played no little part.

“Fuck yeah, cunt,” Joe sighed, his hard, handsome face mere inches from that of his helpless, thrashing victim, “I can feel you dying. Worthless fuckin’ fag, yer gonna die just so you can be my cumdump. Ya like that? Oh hell yeah you do, lookit the way you work my dick as I snuff ya! It ain’t a compliment, you disgusting homo; you’re just battin’ warm-up for your butt-fuckin’ friend over here.”

Jake had watched it all in fascinated horror. It wasn’t a matter of believing Andy was gay or not; this situation was way beyond that point. Andy was getting raped. Andy was getting murdered. Jake had already seen his bud’s face, congested and puffy, turning a terrifying shade of purple. His almond-shaped eyes were almost unrecognizable as they bulged grotesquely, hemorrhages bursting in large red blooms in the whites.

It was the stuff of nightmare. But the physical violence of the sexual assault rammed the reality home in multiple senses.

Joe’s glistening, sculpted torso gleamed in the light as he slowly increased the tempo of his thrusts. Even with the knowledge that Andy was dying and that he was next, Jake still found himself somehow mesmerized by the performance.

And he noticed—he couldn’t help but notice—the way Andy’s tool responded. Motherfucker was gettin’ raped and snuffed—and he was hard.

Maybe he was gay. But Jake wasn’t. He was gonna fight.

Without missing a single thrust of his tempo or a single half-turn of the screwdriver sending his hapless victim into a new wave of convulsions, Joe had managed to follow Jake’s line of thought. Stupid little fuck wasn’t as complicated as he thought. And even if he pretended to be straight to himself, Joe knew he’d be able to squeeze the true faggot pig outta him by the time he died.

Fighting through his terror, Jake found his voice again. “Stop!” he screeched. “I’m gonna fuck you up so bad when I get outta this, dude—let me up NOW!”

Joe only needed one hand to keep the garrote tightened around Andy’s throat. He used the other to backhand Jake across the jaw. He never took his eyes off Andy’s blackening face. “Yer fuckin’ homeboy thinks he’s gettin’ outta this alive. He’s as fuckin’ dead as you are, only he don’t know it yet. He’ll have to feel it to understand it—like you are now, huh, cunt?”

Somehow, over his pain and fear, Andy was aware of Jake lying next to him. A dim, dying corner of his brain had always fantasized about getting his best bud to suck his cock. Now his best bud’s hard nude body pressed helplessly against him, smooth flesh against smooth flesh.

It was a shame Andy wasn’t able to enjoy the sensation.

As the blood flow to his head was increasingly restricted, the pressure behind his forehead became nightmarish. The hot crushing pain in his chest was fading; his broad pecs quivering with approaching death but no longer rising and falling with vain attempts at respiration.

That horrible spike up his ass, though—he could still feel every detail of that. Every single torturous vein wrapped around the thick shaft was detected by his mangled sphincter and sent a silent shriek up his nervous system to a brain already overwhelmed in agony.

Jake was still recovering, both from the force of Joe’s bitchslap and the implication of his impending murder. He was a young, easy-going straight boy; he simply didn’t have the mental equipment to process the concept of a gay rape/snuff. He grew quiet, his mind going into vapor lock as he watched—and felt—the horrific scene playing out right beside him.

He had a close-up view of his roommate’s suffering. Andy’s handsome face, only inches from his, was almost unrecognizable; swollen, black and spewing foamy drool, it was a grotesque caricature of the boy who’d been his friend since high school.

The bound brawny youth was unable to tear his eyes away from Andy’s face. It was as if the spectacle was hypnotic, cruelly forcing Jake into a kind of tunnel vision on his buddy’s face, compelling him, against his will, to note every detail. Involuntarily, he witnessed Andy’s bulging, bloodshot eyes, frantic and desperate; his purple, protruding tongue swollen horribly between split lips—and all of it moving rhythmically, the dying kid’s head bobbing up and down with a swift pace.

And in his panicked paralysis, Jake understood it was bobbing in time to the rapist’s thrusts. He understood that Andy wasn’t just dying; he was dying with a cock up his ass.

What he hadn’t yet internalized what that it was all gonna happen to him, too. Joe did his best to correct the oversight.

The older alpha, his heaving, muscled flanks streaked with sweat, continued to pound Andy’s traumatized fuckhole, reaming his colon mercilessly as the younger stud slid slowly and painfully into death. His panicked yanking at the belt binding became less and less coordinated; he somehow managed to slip his left foot out of his shorts, freeing his legs—but he had suffered so much brain damage by this time that the desperate drumming of his Nikes grew was erratic and convulsive.

The hard-bodied Asian youth was past the point of conscious thought. His strong, strapping body was wracked with agonizing convulsions. His head shook violently side to side in a futile, instinctive attempt to break free of the leather choker sunk deeply into his esophagus; all he accomplished was to send a long white string of drool splattering on Jake’s broad chest.

Andy couldn’t think; he could only feel. And what he felt was indescribable. The horrific burning sensation in his chest and his head was fading into the biting cold of incipient death. Only a few searing flashes of heat remained to illumine his last few seconds on earth. One, white-hot and excruciating, was plunging through his shredded rectum; another, like a heated iron ingot, was crushing his windpipe with an inexorable force.

And there was a third that he no longer had the awareness to deny—the bubbling, boiling cauldron of magma seething in his scrotum and surging along the underside of his erect, pulsating cock. His long tool had been slapping against his flat belly during the sexual assault; Joe felt it strike his own abdomen during some of his deeper plunges into his victim’s guts. Now it was as swollen and purple as Andy’s face and was visibly throbbing.

Joe turned and looked directly into Jake’s stunned face, the younger man’s eyes wide and ringed with dark circles of shock. “Holy fuckin’ shit, cunt, this cumpig is close,” he hissed evilly at the terrified youth. “Here’s how I know he’s a fag—see how hard he is? Now watch him blow a load as I fuck him to death, you sack of shit, cause you’re gonna do the same thing when it happens to you, ya homo cumdump!”

Jake watched in horrified silence as Joe twisted the screwdriver forcefully, cinching the thin but strong leather strap even more tightly around Andy’s neck. Encountering a brief resistance, the sadistic top gave a loud grunt of effort which was rewarded with a loud, sickening crunch. Mere inches away, Jake could see Andy’s head shudder and loll in vivid detail as his handsome young roommate’s esophagus collapsed and his neck snapped under the intense pressure of the garrote he’d chosen to wear as a fashion accessory.

Andy himself experienced it differently. For him, it was a shattering bolt of lightning that lit up the devastated landscape of his nervous system, a savage slash of electrochemical agony that tore through every nerve in his thrashing, convulsing body. Splinters of shattered vertebrae ripped through his spinal cord, leaving the transmission of nerves signals mangled but, cruelly, not completely severed.

As Andy’s brain died of oxygen starvation, a few last sensations were able to penetrate the icy darkness. They were sensations of liquid heat; of molten metal flowing into his ass and out of his cock in a steady stream of basic genetic material…

He was dead before he stopped spewing his load; a jet of ropy, pearly semen that splattered over Joe’s wiry, sweat-matted chest hair.

Joe hunched over the corpse, thrusting his cock convulsively into the flaccid dead hole as he cursed and grunted like a rutting animal, filling the punk’s colon with sperm.

And Jake had seen and heard every second of Andy gruesomely sadistic rape and snuff. And felt it—in fact, he was still feeling it. Andy’s muscled right leg had flopped across Jake’s legs. Even now, the dead dude’s Fingermax Traps were quivering and trembling as a death spasm drew the leg up at the knee, dragging the expensive kicks up Jake’s hairy calves.

Shuddering and panting heavily, sweat glistening on his heaving, muscled body, Joe shifted back. The dead boy’s ass involuntarily disgorged his killer’s dick, streaked with blood and cum. The hulking rapist slipped off the bed, standing for a moment while he caught his breath. He reached around and grabbed his smokes, exhaling a huge cloud of nicotine after swiftly lighting up.

Joe glanced around the room with a low, grim chuckle. As he moved, his thick dick, still hanging out of his jeans, swung in great, lazy circles and spattered drops of cum about the room. The buff stud inhaled deeply; his testosterone, sweat and spunk swirled into a fog of manscent that was tinted with the pheromones of the two boys—and vast amounts of adrenaline, pumped out by terror.

The scene on the bed was enough to make sure he didn’t go limp. Andy was still on his back with his arms bound above his head. The handsome youth was bare, his shirt still around his neck, exposing his broad, furry chest and firm flat belly, both glazed with coagulating semen. His left leg was lying along the edge of the bed, his right still stretched across Jake’s crotch with the black shorts twisted tightly around the ankle. Even in the faint light, Joe could see the dead stud’s smooth thigh quiver in death.

He grinned lewdly, knowing Jake must have been able to feel it on his own long rod, hidden underneath. The strapping blond youth, his tightly muscled arms trapped behind his back by the viciously twisted wire hanger, had turned his head to the wall. He seemed to be resisting any acknowledgement of the horrific situation in which he found himself, denial written deeply in his clenched eyes and gritted teeth.

The cruel alpha strode out of the room, leaving behind an atmosphere of fear, pain and death in Andy’s bedroom. For a moment, the only sound in the gruesome stillness was the corpse’s occasional mindless galvanic twitch.

But Joe had only stepped across the hall to the bathroom. A sudden splashing sound abruptly broke the silence. The violent stranger was pounding a steady stream of piss into the toilet and the noise somehow wormed its way into Jake’s numbed awareness. It went on so long that some dim corner of the stunned youth’s mind began to wonder how much the dude could hold—began to wonder, in fact, if the killer was even human.

And that thought, more than anything else, broke Jake free from his torpor. He’d already seen the man’s power and sadism, but he’d had a vague idea that it had all been expended on poor Andy. But if the guy had anything left, Jake was clearly gonna be next.

Whimpering in terror, the painfully bound young man began squirming on the bed in an attempt, if not to free himself from his bindings, then at least to get off the bed and perhaps to a window to call for help. Suddenly, he found himself writhing slowly on top of Andy’s still-quivering corpse. It was too much for Jake; he started blubbering—a very bad move. Joe heard the noise and stormed furiously back into the room.

The callous alpha laughed cruelly when he saw Jake positioned on top of his roommate. “Lookitya, you fuckin’ death pig fag,” he crowed obnoxiously, “I ain’t gone five minutes and yer tryin’ to hump your dead fuckbuddy! Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you get to enjoy his corpse—startin’ now.”

Joe towered over the bed, his broad shadow thrown ominously across the bodies of the two young men on the bed, one living and one dead. His thick hog, still pulsating, dangled over the shuddering youth who cowered beneath him. The blond boy was tall and almost as well-built as his assailant, but brutal mental shock had overwhelmed his physical assets.

He needed more of the same, Joe realized. A little more humiliation—a little more tenderizing.

Maybe a little foot worship. He liked the idea of the hot blond blue-eyed stud working his feet, but he had a better idea.

He repositioned the punk by grabbing his head with both hands and yanking it down to the point he wanted it. Before Jake knew what was happening, Andy’s Nikes were in front of his face—specifically, the left one.

“Take it off him,” he commanded harshly.

Jake was still far too confused to understand. He remained motionless.

“Use your mouth, you goddam pervert. You had worse in there than this homo’s feet anyway, I bet. Do it!”

The situation was so surreal, so disorienting that Jake obeyed the ring of command in the older man’s voice almost without conscious thought. Bending his head down, he took the tip of one of the laces in his mouth, his teeth closing tightly on the plastic aglet at the tip. Yanking his head back, he managed to undo the laces with a single jerk.

The brutal sadist still had his hands on each side of Jake’s head. To enforce his orders, he began to squeeze. His victim understood the warning; the only way to ease the crushing pain was to submit, to obey.

Jake glanced down at the black and gray Fingertrap Max sneaker. Andy’s foot was turned to the side in death; Jake noticed a loop of fabric at the top of the heel tab. Burying his head by his bud’s still-shuddering kick, Jake took the tab between his teeth and began the long, slow process of working the sneaker off Andy’s foot.

It took several minutes. Every time Jake started to slow his efforts to pull the dead stud’s sneaker off, Joe reapplied pressure to his head, his biceps bulging as he crushed the fucker’s skull. He never said a word; he just applied massive pain whenever his victim seemed to tire. It was several minutes of silent terror, agony, and struggle.

Finally, after unimaginable damage to his psyche—to say nothing of the faint but terrifying cracking sounds from his cranium—Jake managed to work the sneaker off. The moment he did, Joe let go, allowing the kid to shake his head like a dog, tossing the sneak across the room.

Joe allowed Jake a good thirty seconds of gasping recovery before reminding him that he wasn’t done. “Took ya long enough, motherfucker; ya need to do better than that with his sock.”

Cringing in humiliation, Jake had no choice but to comply. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been trying to break free every single moment since this insane nightmare had started; all he’d succeeded in doing was to chafe his ankles bloody with the jump rope and embed the wire hanger into his wrists so deeply that his fists went numb, then began the cold, agonizing ache of nerve death.

The nightmarish nature, the sheer bizarreness of the situation acted on the youth like a fog descending on his brain. He’d been a typical straight boy, not so much stupid as naïve. He had no exit strategy for his current predicament for the very good reason that he’d never imagined that someone like Joe existed.

And now, here he was, feeling the smooth, cooling flesh of Andy’s ankle pressing against his lips as he took the top edge of the dead punk’s ped sock in his teeth and slowly began maneuvering it off the quivering foot. As he slipped it off, his face slid down the slightly rough surface of the sole.

Freeing the sock from the foot, he turned his head away from Andy and spat it out. Rising back up on his knees, he fell back away from the corpse’s feet, his head ending up near Andy’s midsection as the abused boy gasped in despair and painful exhaustion.

The calculating killer was determined to press his advantage. “Lick him, you sack of shit,” he hissed evilly at his sniveling victim, “Lick that spunk off his belly, you fuckin’ cunt.”

The words pierced the fog of terror that had clouded Jake’s mind. The buff blond turned to his tormenter with an incredulous look on his handsome face. “Wh-what?” he quavered, his voice cracking in shock and disbelief. This wasn’t just different than the thing with Andy’s foot—this was horrible, disgusting—and gay. And Jake wasn’t gay.

Joe snarled down into the wide blue eyes staring at him in shock. “Goddamit, I said lick him, you stupid cocksucker!” he barked, backhanding Jake across the face. “Get your tongue out and start slurping up your boyfriend’s cum, you worthless bitch.”

Jake’s head swung under the blow, but he still hesitated, torn between terror and revulsion. Joe next statement was what motivated him. “Suck up that sperm or I’ll kill you right fuckin’ now, you disgusting waste of flesh.”

Slowly, tremulously, the muscled young stud placed his face near Andy’s flat, spunk-glazed belly, still jerking occasionally as random nerves fired in death. He stuck his tongue out tentatively and immediately froze. Suddenly, the killer’s hand clamped across the back of his head like a vice and shoved him down abruptly.

Jake’s mind did not process the events of the next few minutes; the boy didn’t think about what was happening—he only endured as he was forced to clean his dead friend’s semen off his corpse, using only his mouth. Joe, on the other hand, memorized—and took great sadistic pleasure in—every last detail.

He particularly got off on the way he could feel the panicked sweat mat the kid’s short blond hair, and the way Jake’s head bobbed in his hand as the boy gagged and choked with repugnance. “Fuck yeah, show me what a good cumsucker you are and I might let ya live, faggot,” he chuckled quietly.

Not so quiet that Jake couldn’t hear. Shuddering in disgust and fear, he shut off as much of his consciousness as he could and continued to slurp the cold, salty, jellied spooge off Andy’s abdomen, pausing occasionally to spit out one of the dead boy’s wiry body hairs.

And somewhere in the depths of his brain, he cursed his dead buddy. He deflected the psychological trauma by blaming Andy for bringing this sadistic sociopath into their home, goddammit, Andy, if ya wanted dick, I don’t take dick but I’d have given ya mine—

Then he swallowed a thick wad of cum. Horrified, he started coughing violently and retching, his entire body heaving as he desperately tried not to vomit.

He didn’t know what the vicious psycho would do to him if he vomited, and he didn’t want to find out. But the effort was overwhelming; his hard body jerked and twitched with the strain, his taut muscles quivering as sweat trickled down his smooth skin.

Joe pulled him up abruptly and angrily. “Keep it down, you fuck, so help me, if you puke that spunk, I’ll fuck you up nice and slow.” But even with this threat, Jake’s gag reflex was kicking in; despite his best efforts, Andy’s salty, slimy load clung to the sides of his throat. His heaving got stronger.

“Holy fuckin’ shit, you really are worthless, aintcha?” Joe sneered in contempt as Jake struggled not to throw up. The punk’s straight blond hair was just long enough for the alpha to grab a handful; he brutally jerked the young man up onto his knees one the bed. “Spoiler alert, dude—I’m gonna skullfuck ya. But I damn sure ain’t gonna get no fag puke on my cock, motherfucker. Guess I’m gonna hafta plug ya up first. Lessee, what’ll work…”

Looking around, Joe spied Andy’s white ped sock, still wet with Jake’s saliva. “Yeah, man, this’ll work,” he said as he balled it up and forced it into Jake’s mouth. Then he held his middle finger up in front of the boy’s stunned blue eyes, smiled, and used the finger to shove the sock into Jake’s throat. “There ya go, asswipe. Go ahead and try to barf that spooge up now and you’ll choke on it.”

The powerful alpha smirked, his dominance utterly unquestionable at this point. The well-built, athletic youth was helpless, utterly within his control. Joe could do what he wanted with Jake.

And what he wanted was so very, very cruel. But he wanted to neutralize the possibility of any injury. He’d notice a ragged piece of cloth on the nightstand, only partially visible behind the lamp. Reaching out for it, he found it to be an old hand towel, threadbare, torn—and stiff.

And reeking of mansex. It was Andy’s cumrag.

With sudden inspiration, Joe tore it in half. He wadded each half up into a small ball of spunk-soaked fabric. “Open your mouth, cunt, or I’ll open it for you,” he said in an even tone of voice that was menacing in its lack of threat. He could, and would do what he said.

Jake had to obey. His soul burned with rage and rebellion—but he had to obey. He had no choice. He opened his mouth wide, but he was determined that he wasn’t gonna submit without some show of resistance. And this motherfucker might just have given him his best shot. Closing his eyes, he awaited Joe’s dick.

What he got, instead, were wads of Andy’s cumrag shoved into the back of his mouth, so deep into the angles of his jaws that he couldn’t close them. Between them and Andy’s sock, he was gagging on his dead bud’s body fluids. He turned his wide blue eyes, now huge with stunned terror, up the powerful older man looming over him.

Tears began welling in Jake’s eyes. His one plan—his one chance to escape—the alpha had seen through it. He was truly helpless now. This couldn’t be happening. Whatever was going on, whatever he had to endure, he was gonna survive this. He was gonna fight for every last second of his life.

Joe saw it all in the defenseless punk’s face and was very happy. “Good,” he whispered almost inaudibly, “fight me. Work me. Milk me…”

Shifting his heavy, unlaced boots on the floor, the hulking sadist leered menacingly down at the subjugated boy. The seductively innocent, happy-go lucky expression that was natural to Jake had been wrenched into a mask of shock and fear. His silky skin, bulging over his muscles, was slick with sweat. As he gagged and coughed on Andy’s sock, spittle flew from his mouth, painfully propped open by the dead dude’s crusty cumrag.

And as he gurgled in soul-crushing revulsion, Jake saw Joe’s enormous cock coming straight at him like a scene from a 3D movie. The thick, pulsing rod of flesh was oozing clear liquid from its swollen purple head.

Jake, for all his cocky young bravado, was in such terror that he’d have pissed himself if he hadn’t emptied his bladder in the shower in the gym. This was something beyond his imagination; something against which he was helpless simply because it was something of which he was incapable of conceiving. It was a surreal nightmare. The cloth items jammed into his mouth, the salty tang of Andy’s seed on his tongue—it wasn’t real.

Then Joe made it real. Before Jake knew what was happening, his mouth was full of cock. And by the time he did know what was happening, his throat was full of cock too.

The buff young stud coughed and gagged, his eyes watering with the sudden strenuous effort required to breathe around sock and cock. Kneeling on the bed with the killer’s hands on the back of his head, Jake was gruesomely reminded of Andy’s corpse when a random twitch caused the dead punk’s right foot—the one with the Nike still tightly laced on—to faintly, almost caressingly, rub against his leg.

Even as the crushing iron grip of the inexorable alpha relentlessly forced Jake to take more and more of the huge throbbing shaft into his mouth, he was aware of the mesh upper of his roommate’s sneaker slowly scraping him just above the knee. He could feel Andy’s shoe, but not his own; the jump rope was tied around his ankles so tightly that by this time, his numb feet were beginning to ache from extended loss of blood flow. His own Nike hightops were filled with paralyzed lumps of flesh.

Joe was inflicting his gigantic hog on the muscular young man with utter ruthlessness. The deeper he plunged down the fucker’s esophagus, the more it narrowed around his tool, a velvety cylinder lubed with spit that tightly embraced his dick.

“Goddam, cunt, you suck cock good,” he chuckled, a guttural note of pleasure reverberating deeply in his voice. “You musta sucked yer buddy’s cock a lot to get that good, you worthless homo pervert. I bet you swallowed gallons of his cum, huh? Yeah, faggot? Ya fuckin’ queens go get all hot an’ horny at the gym and then come home and suck each other off?”

With the deep growl of an untamed animal, he thrust his fully-erect rod brutally down the bound boy’s throat. “Suck my dick, you pansy-ass motherfucker!” he grunted. A sudden sensation on the fat, mushroom-shaped head of his cock gave Joe a momentary pause before he realized it was the sock he’d shoved into the meat’s mouth to shut it up.

With a truly evil grin, the cruel alpha tensed his bulging biceps and with a quick jerk of his powerful arms, forced Jake’s head all the way down. Unable to close his mouth because of the wadded cumrag shoved in his jaw, the well-built straight boy was utterly helpless as the pulsing, vein-wrapped penis completely plugged his windpipe, forcing the balled-up sock down into the trachea.

In the first few moments of shock and denial, Jake’s mind focused exclusively on the one aspect of his living nightmare that he could somehow understand—the scratching on his face.

Pubic hair. Another dude’s pubes were in his face. What the fuck? How—how had this happened? He’d gone to do his usual routine after work. Andy was at the gym already, as usual, and had left earlier, as usual—then Jake had come home. As usual.

And now Andy was dead, violated and murdered. And some dude’s pubes were in his face. What the fuck?

And then a new imperative arose. His full attention swung from “what the fuck is going on” to “why the fuck can’t I breathe” in an instant. But, while Jake might have been a jock, he wasn’t a dumb jock. It took less than five seconds without oxygen for him to realize what was happening.

The same thing that had happened to Andy.

He wasn’t gonna let it happen. His earlier resolve had melted in terror; sheer physical distress was causing it to recrystallize. He jerked backwards abruptly, trying to pull out of the agonizing iron cage formed by his assailant’s hands.

Joe laughed out loud. “You ain’t getting’ off my cock that easy, faggot,” he chortled in malicious glee. “You stupid queerboy bitches are all the same—ya can’t take my dick, worthless little pansies, huh? Get the fuck back down on my shaft, you useless motherfucker, you ain’t done suckin’ my spunk out yet. C’mon, you piece of shit, quit fightin’—trust me, asswipe, it ain’t gonna matter in a few minutes. In fact, ain’t nothin’ gonna matter to ya in a few minutes, meatsack!”

The muscles in the corner of his hard, firm jaw bunched up as he gritted his teeth and savagely thrust his engorged rod back down Jake’s reamed-out esophagus. The brutal, cold-blooded top grunted with pleasure as he felt the panicked young stud writhing under him, the thrashing movement of the kid’s head massaging him beautifully.

Jake’s forced-open jaw distorted his broad, handsome face, but it was Andy’s ped sock being rammed down his throat that was making his skin swell and darken. It was as if a white cotton plug was being inserted by a piston—except most pistons weren’t vein-wrapped and throbbing. Or oozing at the tip.

The husky young man was straining his muscles in an instinctual but futile attempt to break his bonds; the effort wrung a steady stream of frantic sweat from his body, giving his smooth skin a pungent, glossy sheen. He was just as unaware of it as he was of the purple, grotesque mask that had once been his face. He was too focused on survival to notice much else.

Deep in the pressurized agony of asphyxiation, Jake could hear his heart beat; his head was pounding in the same wild tempo as his pulse. He was in such pain that adjectives had lost meaning: crushing exploding searing icy—all could, in some way or another, describe what he was experiencing. But then there were NO words to describe the entirety.

And if there were words to describe the sensation in his own dick, he didn’t want to know them—although he already did. He had a hard-on, he’d popped a boner, he was sporting wood.

He was dying with an erection. That-that wasn’t supposed to happen. Ever.

His mind, fleeing from the implication, ran smack into the swollen, dripping cock in his mouth. And even then, some part of his consciousness was acutely aware of his own shaft, bobbing in the open air, itself dripping onto Andy’s cooling corpse. And that’s when his psyche shattered and Jake, the cocky young stud ceased to exist.

All that was left was fuckmeat that could only react to sensations, unable to feel more than pain and some basic animal emotions. In a sense, Jake had already been fucked to death; his body simply didn’t realize it yet.

It’d catch on soon enough. Joe’s huge shaft had lodged the wadded sock so deeply into the cunt’s trachea that the coroner missed it during the autopsy. Even if he pulled out now, Jake was still doomed to suffocation—not, of course, that Joe had any intention of pulling out.

Not when it was getting so good…

“That’s it, faggot, let go. Give up, you scumshit homo, you lost. Go on and die. It feels so fuckin’ good, havin’ ya twitch and kick away yer last few seconds of life on my tool. Yeah, motherfucker, that’s why I’m doin’ all this—just so I can blow my load by makin’ yeah into meat.”

With a deep grunt, he tightened his biceps further, tendons standing out on his forearms as he ground the unlucky boy’s face into his groin, his wiry pubes scraping his victim’s excruciatingly swollen skin like steel wool. “Die, pig,” he barked gutturally, “swallow my sperm and die. You know you wanna, ya queer-ass fuck, yer hard as fuckin’ rock yerself.”

Jake heard the words, but like Andy before him, was too far along the path of brain death to be able to understand. If he had, he might have agreed. Sunk into a cold dark maelstrom of pounding silent agony, he could still feel an even sharper agony, an even more penetrating pounding emanating from his crotch. He was past the point of understanding that he was feeling his own erection, an unnaturally strong physical reaction to his death by oxygen deprivation. He only knew of a white-hot searing sensation in his scrotum accompanied by a piercing sensation running along the length of his straining cock.

Joe could feel heat in his own scrotum. As Jake began to convulse violently, he bobbed his head up and down deeply but erratically on Joe’s massive rod while his esophagus clenched and relaxed in uncontrollable muscle spasms. The buff faggot stud was at the moment of death; it was what the sadistic alpha had been waiting for.

With a curse and a strangled cry, Joe ground Jake’s head viciously into his groin, shoving his cock as far as he could into the helpless youth’s skull. His orgasm seemed to go on forever; he seemed to be spewing a solid pint of semen down Jake’s throat. Shuddering violently, Joe inhaled, renewed his grip—and shot a second stream of cum into the dying homo.

“Fuck!” he screamed, shoving the meatsack away and stepping back, his enormous purple hog throbbing and pushing out pearls of spunk with each pulse. Gasping with exertion, his powerful, sweaty flanks heaving, Joe could see that Jake was still on his knees—and wasn’t quite dead.

And then he died. Joe had just a split-second to recognize what was happening and turn his head as the punk’s beautifully-built body started to writhe and buck like a bronco. In an instant, Jake’s back spasmed brutally, bending his body backwards in an arc. This massive death convulsion was enough to trigger the boy’s orgasm.

It was a shame he was too brain-dead to enjoy it; it was the most intense load he ever shot in his short, wasted life. The physical motion of the body added momentum to the white, ropy fountain of semen that erupted from his painfully tumescent shaft; he ended up spraying cum like a fire hose, spattering Joe’s huge, muscular form with spooge from about waist height—just above his jeans—up to his slightly scruffy cheek, causing his belly fur and chest hair, already matted with sweat, to become even crustier. If the top hadn’t turned away at the last moment, he’d have gotten Jake’s death load right in his face.

Joe turned back, warm, wet seed trickling down his face, to watch Jake’s last five seconds alive. The boy had come bolt upright on his knees. His face was black, with white foamy streaks of drool oozing from the corners of his mouth, long streamers of spit dangling from his chin. His bulging, blood-red eyes seemed to peer out of his gruesomely twisted face with a kind of frantic, desperate appeal—one last attempt to deny the reality of the death that was already taking him down. But the bathos was belied by the vacancy behind the eyes—this wasn’t a plea for mercy; it was an involuntary reaction to random nerve impulses.

Jake was already dead. In the next moment, he went limp, falling sideways like a sack of potatoes.

He fell on top of Andy. Except for the fact that his legs were bent behind him at the knee so that his Nike Flight Falcon hightops kicked at the bare sheets, it looked like the two boys had curled together to comfort each other in death.

Joe looked down at himself. “Fuckin’ disgustin’ fags,” he muttered, “I was too easy on you pieces a’ shit; ya shoulda died harder.”

The fact that he’d left his heavy beige construction boots untied came in handy; he was able to slip the off quickly. Peeling off his socks and jeans, he swiftly crossed to the bathroom.

It took longer than expected for the hot water to come on; he spent the time wandering Andy’s bedroom, having a smoke and poking through the drawers. Just in case there was anything valuable; he wasn’t specifically a thief—but these two motherfuckers didn’t need money no more, that was for damn sure. No sense letting anything go to waste—besides the used-up fuckmeat, that is…

He’d flicked his ashes around the room at random; when he noticed steam coming from the bathroom, he went back in, tossing his butt in the toilet. He didn’t flush until he got back out of the shower though; he didn’t want to disturb the temperature balance of the water.

Once he was done cleaning himself, Joe was surprised to find that he was hungry. Then again, he’d been unusually active tonight. It had been his first twofer—and had been totally spontaneous. It wasn’t as if he’d planned on the second fag showing up.

Still stark nude, he padded though the apartment and found the kitchen. It only took a few minutes of rummaging to find the bread, cheese and lunchmeat. Munching his sandwich contentedly, Joe continued to stroll through the place at his leisure, opening cabinets and closets, doing his best to violate the dead punks’ privacy. Feeling much more energetic after eating, Joe returned to the death room to retrieve his clothing. First the socks, then he wriggled into his jeans.

It was while he leaned against the wall to slip his boots back on that the feeling came over him; something he’d wondered about, but had never actually appealed to him before. But now…

Having gotten both boots on, Joe stood silently, looking at the corpses. Andy was dead long enough to be still, his face only slightly swollen and nearly normal in color, gravity having drained the blood to the back. His hands were still above his head; Joe stepped forward and untied his belt from around the cold, nerveless wrists. The perverted killer threaded the thick leather strap back through the denim loops of his tight jeans as he continued to admire his work.

Andy’s neck was constricted to an almost unbelievable extent, the leather choker sunk so deeply into his throat that it couldn’t be seen. The screwdriver that had been run through the metal ring had ended up propped against dead punk’s chin. The fucker’s head was bent into a disturbingly unnatural position, a result of the shattering of his spinal column.

Andy’s slightly furred legs were no longer twitching; his one remaining Nike lay still—although the toes on his bare foot seemed to curl faintly on occasion.

On top of him, Jake’s body was still learning that it was dead. As the straight boy’s personality dissolved into an electrochemical stew, it churned out random pulses along the dying nerves—Jake was still shuddering in his death throes. His bulging eyes, rolled back to reveal nothing but bloodstained whites, showed clearly that there was no one home inside the quivering sack of meat. His protruding tongue scraped over his dead buddy’s cheek in a move that they both might have enjoyed if they were still alive.

Too late for that now.

Jake had suffered the same cadaveric spasm as Andy; even in death, his well-developed muscles had betrayed him by clenching tight at the base of his cock, already engorged with blood far beyond normal limits. As the muscles stiffened in death, both boys were left with firm, lean corpses with raging hard-ons.

As the blond boy convulsed in his death throes, his long, thick tool slapped repeatedly against Andy’s belly; a loud smacking sound filled the room. The sound of someone getting dickslapped…

It was too much for Joe. He wanted a piece of that action. Elbowing Jake’s shuddering body aside, the powerful, strapping alpha straddled Andy’s chest. The Asian youth was gorgeous even in death; Joe’s semi-hard shaft, so recently emptied, sprang back to full attention as he gazed into the glazed thousand-yard stare in the dead youth’s almond eyes.

Leaning forward, he thrust his swollen member into Andy’s mouth, taking ultimate advantage of a victim who was truly helpless to resist. There was nothing the well-built boy could do to prevent his corpse getting skullfucked. The unfortunate kid had gone online looking for a quick BJ; now, he and his roommate had both been raped and brutally murdered—even their corpses not immune to violation…

As Andy’s dry, swollen tongue scraped the underside of Joe’s huge corpse, the hulking alpha’s oozing precum provided all the lube he needed. But it was the constriction in the body’s throat when he was fully inserted, that felt so good to the evil killer. He knew that he was feeling the crushed cartilage that had killed the queer-ass motherfucker; he was fucking the faggot right in the place that killed him—

With a loud groan, Joe shuddered and unloaded an enormous wad of semen into Andy’s head. He spunked so hard, the cum backed up from the closed-off esophagus and trickled out of Andy’s nostrils like white, pearly snot.

And he was still horny. He still had more seed to unload. Joe couldn’t explain it himself; maybe these two gym rats were pumping out their own pheromones. Whatever—it didn’t matter.

What mattered was that he needed to cum. Again.

Dragging Andy’s cold, stiffening corpse off the bed, he tossed it on the floor like the pile of rotting meat it was. Turning back to Jake’s still-kicking body, he remembered the dead punk’s claim to be straight. Grinning nastily, Joe decided to put it to the test. If he was straight, then Joe’d pop the corpse’s cherry. And if that happened—oh well, stupid cunt just got home at the wrong time.

Joe could live with that, even if his victims couldn’t.

Rolling the warm, pulsing corpse onto its belly, Joe penetrated Jake’s quivering sphincter with a single thrust, moaning with pleasure as the dead boy’s still-trembling colon accepted his throbbing hog with an almost conscious eagerness. There was still a momentary resistance that confirmed his claim to virginity; Joe had torn the cunt’s ass muscle in two separate places.

Stupid piece of shit. Served him right for coming home when he wasn’t supposed to. Got what he deserved, dumb-ass motherfucker; probably was still suckin’ down his ass-bandit roomie’s loads as often as he could.

Jake was a better fag dead than alive; he certainly seemed more intent on milking out Joe’s sperm than he had while he was still in control of himself. Joe smiled. He understood. That was all faggots really needed—someone to control them when they were so obviously unable to control themselves. And the best way to dominate, to prove his control, was to inflict pain to the point of death.

That’s how they knew. That’s how fags knew he was the one to put them down. They loved it, worthless disgusting perverts, every one of them, they always blew a huge death wad as he wrung their useless lives right out of their hot, hard young bodies—

Joe was fucking Jake’s corpse in such a rage, stoked by the way the dead punk’s rectum still managed to pulse and stroke his sensitive, distended mushroom tip, that he felt the heat boiling up from his balls almost before he knew what was happening. At the last moment, he grabbed hold of Jake’s head, the blond boy’s face still horribly black and swollen from suffocation.

And then the rodeo was on.

This was Joe’s fourth orgasm in about forty-five minutes; he was past the point of control himself. He gripped the smooth, firm corpse tightly to brace himself for the physical impact, but even he was unprepared for the intense reaction he had.

The hairy, hard-bodied alpha clenched his muscles with a convulsive brutality as he injected a steady, searing jet of semen into the dead body. Sweating and grunting, he cursed violently, his arms jerking back on Jake’s head. As the lifeless face, still oozing foamy spittle, snapped backward with ruthless force, Joe head a sound like a tree limb fracturing and found himself looking directly into the blond stud’s dull eyes, their bright blue coloring diluted by a certain milkyness.

Fuck. He’d snapped Jake’s neck too. Oh well.

Still shaky with pleasure, Joe slowly withdrew his pulsating shaft from the dead boy. It slid out on a slimy trickle of spunk; the cold-blooded killer looked around and found a jockstrap on the floor next to the dresser. He quickly wiped his glistening member off, tossing the impromptu cumrag into the corner.

Digging his cigarettes out of his pocket, he contemplated the scene in front of him, trying to decide the best way of leaving it. While his DNA might be linked to the other kills, he wasn’t on file—and given his low profile, he wasn’t worried about that aspect of it. Still, it might make it easier if he just started a fire and burned the place down.

But the boys were still so hot, even dead with their necks snapped. Their helpless, well-cared-for bodies were somehow still irresistible. Joe couldn’t quite figure it out—and then he could. Cadaveric spasm hadn’t subsided yet for either of them. The dead fags’ dicks were still hard.

Well, hell—that gave him a sick idea. Two horny homos dying on each other’s cocks? Fuckin’ hot!

Andy had ended up on the floor on his back, pretty much spread-eagled, his impossibly erect shaft towering above his flat, furry belly. He was already perfectly in position; all Joe needed to do was set Jake up. That took a bit longer; the well-built youth had left a heavy corpse.

Joe dragged it off the bed; it slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the floor. “Worthless sack of shit!” he snarled in anger, grinding his construction boot into the bloated, ravaged remains of Jake’s once-handsome face. The enraged alpha drove a few kicks into the torso, shattering a few ribs with the steel toe of his boot, before he’d calmed down enough to pick up the corpse and resume his work.

Spreading Jake’s smooth, muscular legs, he lowered the boy down on top of Andy, aiming the blond stud’s dick right for the Asian’s mouth. Once he had the motherfucker in position, he moved further down the tableau to force the straight boy’s face down onto his roomie’s cold but turgid shaft.

Joe retrieved his wifebeater and leather aviation jacket; he slipped the latter on but merely tucked the former through a belt loop. As he left the death chamber, he couldn’t help but to turn back for one last look at the two buff gym rats, both covered in and pumped full of manseed, locked in an eternal 69.

Joe took a couple of pics—and took Andy’s phone on the way out the door. Who knew what kinda worthless fags that fucker had hooked up with? The twisted sadist was certain he’d stumbled across a treasure trove of hot new meat.

Andy stood impatiently in the gym parking lot. He’d told the dude when he’d be done working out; in fact, he’d showered much more quickly (though no less thoroughly) so he’d be able to meet the guy on time and not have to stand around waiting.

Andy had gotten a hit on an online hookup app after work, while on his way to the gym. In his late twenties, the well-built young man took good care of his firm, lightly-furred body. He was bi but not a bottom; his broad chest and thick biceps had towered over many dudes who were glad to get on their knees and slurp his hog.

Tonight was gonna be extra fun, if the guy ever showed up. The pic he’d been sent made his dick hard; the thought of that hard, scruffy face chugging his cock…

The youth snapped out of his reverie. It was getting dark, and even though the weather was warm for the time of year, a chill was setting in as the sun went down. Where the fuck was this cocksucker?

The “cocksucker” was actually already there. Parked at the end of the lot, Joe watched the boy carefully, making sure he was alone.

He’d decided to change his MO for a bit, just to change things up. Well, that, and throw off any investigation. Some of his recent kills had attracted attention…

This time, instead of posting an ad and waiting for a response, he’d gone searching actively for a victim. And while he was trolling sluts online, he came across Andy’s profile and he was intrigued.

The pic showed a handsome kid in his late twenties, his almond eyes clearly showing his Asian heritage but the glossy black bangs across his forehead also hinted at something warmer, almost Mediterranean. The boy was fit, with a light dusting of dark hair down his thick, muscled legs and up his smooth, flat belly.

His profile said he was just looking for head, maybe a little foot worship. But it had to be discreet. He was looking for a cumdump on the DL.

Joe chuckled. He’d turn the fucker into a cumdump himself. And then he’d turn him into meat.

He sent a pic of himself, along with a message that he’d love to suck Andy’s dick. After the punk was dead, Joe would be taking his phone anyway. And so, as usual, he’d gotten to the meeting place early and kept a sharp eye out for any red flags. But everything seemed copacetic; his hunter’s senses detected no danger.

He got out of his car and sauntered slowly towards the boy.

Andy heard the heavy footfalls and looked up to see a tall, hulking man approaching. The dude was amazingly buff, and dressed to emphasize it. The strapping older stud was taller and better built than he was—not by much, but enough. Hard to believe a muscular, masculine guy like that was into giving head.

Joe sighted the kid right away; he was still in his workout gear. The hard-bodied youth was wearing a gray t-shirt that fit tightly across his broad chest. Beneath that was a pair of black, knee-length polyester shorts that displayed the muscle punk’s firm, furry calves to perfection. Over all of it, he sported a shiny blue nylon running jacket with the sleeves shoved up past his elbows to let him show off his smooth forearms.

The boy’s legs descended into pair of Nikes, the black and grey zigzag stipes showing that they were Fingertrap Max style. They looked clean and new. His white ped socks were just barely visible below his ankles.

Joe himself had gone with a classic rough-trade look—after all, he was luring in a top this time. The bait needed to be appropriate to the prey; he needed to look like a slut ready to go anywhere private for sex.

After all, in a way, he was.

He was wearing a white wifebeater at least a couple of sizes too small; it wrapped so snugly around his rock-hard torso as to be almost transparent. His tight jeans, cinched with a thick leather belt, were clean but faded and worn, the ragged cuffs tucked into a pair of beige construction boots, laced but untied. Like his prey, he wore a jacket—Joe’s a simple black leather aviator jacket.

Andy grinned with pleasure as the hot older dude came close. “You Kevin?” he asked, using the handle Joe had assumed for this kill.

“Yeah, you Andy?” Joe replied, letting his eyes slide over the boy’s body like a physical caress—making it obvious, luring the punk in. As he did, he noted details—the kid’s black sports watch and his wristband, naturally, but what caught his attention most the thick leather choker the boy wore around his neck.

Joe grinned. It was perfect. Even had an ornamental metal ring in the center.

Andy misunderstood the grin, interpreting it as eagerness. As a cocky young alpha, he went into full swagger mode. “So, man, ya ready to drain my load? Shit, dude, I bet you can’t even take my dick!” Joe grunted and snarled faintly, with just enough restraint that it could be read as submissive.

Andy smiled; throatfucking this stud was gonna be so hot. But he needed to get moving; he’d wasted too much time out here waiting. Jake was gonna finish up soon. “C’mon, man,” he said, “get in your car and follow me. We gotta be quick; once my roommate finishes up his routine and hits the shower, he’s gonna come straight home.”

With that, the boy turned and got into his truck, a red Ford F250. Joe followed him out of the lot in his own car, making sure to hang far enough back that it wouldn’t be obvious to any witnesses that there was a connection between the two vehicles. It wasn’t very difficult to keep the huge fire-engine-red pickup in sight, anyway.

The trip was short; within a few blocks, the truck had pulled of a side street into a parking lot. Behind the lot was a series of low, one-story units stretching back away from the street. Andy waited at the curb as Joe parked. “This way,” he said, leading him deep into the complex.

They were all small condos and seemed to be built with some small variation of floor plan. Their front doors faced each other across the small walkway that extended perpendicularly back from the street. The farther they walked in, the more the sounds of traffic faded.

Andy went right to the end, the last unit on the left. Beyond was a high, impervious wooden fence marking the end of the property. He opened the door and let Joe in.

On the inside, the condo was small. The living room was nicely furnished but the dining area was taken up with a computer desk, with a small two-seat café table shoved into a corner. Beyond the tiny galley kitchen a corridor ran back to the bedrooms; on one side of the corridor was the bathroom. The other side was lined with windows looking out onto a side yard the size of a postage stamp, hemmed in by the blind brick wall of the neighboring unit.

Two small, identical bedrooms in the back completed the set-up. Andy took Joe down the hall to the one on the right. It was furnished with a queen-sized bed, a nightstand and lamp, a dresser and a chest of drawers; there wasn’t room for much else. The muscular punk’s workout gear was scattered around the room; everything from gym shirts and shorts to dumbbells to shoes.

Joe was thrilled. It was almost too easy.

Andy took off his running jacket. Glancing around, he snatched a wire hanger from a pile on the dresser. “Take off your clothes, cocksucker,” he commanded as he turned and opened the closet, using the hanger to dispose of his jacket. “I want ya naked when I skullfuck ya.” Closing the door, he turned back to Joe. “Yeah, you’ll like that, won’t—“

He never saw the blow coming. Joe’s doubled-up fist caught the youth square on the jaw with a swift rabbit-punch, slamming the boy’s head back so hard it punched a hole in the hollow-core door. Andy had just enough time to be aware of a blur before a painful explosion of darkness put his lights out.

The lights came back up slowly, each increment of consciousness accompanied by one of pain. His jaw ached and his arms were twisted painfully above his head; they seemed to be restrained by some sort of thick strap. As Andy became aware if his surroundings, he realized he was tied down on his back on his own bed with his hands bound to the headboard.

Looming over him, the muscled stud leered down at him with an evil grin. There was a hint of such malicious glee in the dude’s handsome, scruffy face that Andy felt the first twinge of fear.

But he damn sure wasn’t gonna let this psycho know about it.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the youth snarled in anger. “Dude, you made a huge mistake. When I get outta this, I’m gonna fuck you up so bad, you hear? I’m gonna—“

“I ain’t no faggot!” Andy barked in anger. “I’ll facefuck a dude, but I ain’t never taken a guy’s load, asswipe!”

“You have sex with guys, you’re a fag,” the brawny alpha hissed menacingly, “and as for taking a load, we’re gonna fix that problem right now.” As he spoke, he slipped off his black leather aviator jacket with a shrug of his powerful shoulders, laying it carefully on top of the chest of drawers where it would remain undamaged by the evening’s activities. In the process, the stack of wire hangers was dislodged, falling to the floor.

Andy grunted and kicked. Still fully dressed, his Nikes caught on the sheets, pulling the corners from under the mattress as he struggled frantically to free himself. As his panicked eyes swept over the ominous figure of his crazed online hookup, the boy realized that “Kevin’s” belt was missing. His jeans were still glued tightly to the older man’s thick, bulging thighs, but the belt…

That was what was binding his hands. Andy remembered it; a two-inch thick strap of leather. Strong as he was, he was no chance of breaking it. He wasn’t gonna be able to get free.

As the hulking stranger slowly unzipped his fly and withdrew a massive, throbbing tube of flesh nearly eight inches long, Andy realized on a subconscious level that he was about to get raped and there was nothing he could do about it. He gulped in fear but was still too arrogant to believe that such a thing could happen to him—after all, dudes wanted his dick, not the other way around.

“Get the fuck away from me, you psycho,” he gasped as he jerked his arms in an instinctive attempt to defend himself. “You ain’t stickin’ nothin’ in me, you fuckin’ crazy-ass homo!”

Joe pulled Andy’s shirt up around his neck. Smiling cheerfully, he slammed his fist into the kid’s flat, furry belly like a piledriver. The well-built youth doubled up in pain, his breath forced from him in a loud, agonized grunt.

As his victim writhed surprised agony on the bed, Joe took a moment to position himself between the boy’s legs. With one swift, smooth jerk, he yanked the punk’s gym shorts and black boxers down simultaneously, leaving them around the kid’s ankles. They’d hold his feet together perfectly when Joe got between his legs to fuck him. And it was just about time to get started…

The roommate was coming home. Joe realized he had to act quickly. Standing up, he peeled his tight wifebeater off and, wadding it into a ball, forced Andy’s mouth open and jammed it inside as a gag—little piece of shit wasn’t gonna be able to warn his buddy.

Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t gonna try. Joe was counting on it. Picking up a small 10-pound hex dumbbell, Joe flipped the light switch off and stood silently behind the open door to Andy’s bedroom.

As he went into full hunt mode, his pulsing cock started dripping. The erotic excitement of stalking truly unaware prey was almost overwhelming…

“Andy!” called out a young, strong voice. “Hey, dude, were are ya? I know you’re home, fucker, your car’s outside, so quit tryin’ to play games!”

As Andy heard Jake’s voice, he became more agitated. He kicked and thrashed on the bed, thick, muffled grunts emerging soddenly from his gagged mouth. He was helpless to warn his friend of the impending danger, and he knew it. His only hope was in somehow alerting Jake so his bud could get away and get help—he didn’t know his desperate flailings were only luring Jake deeper into the trap.

As Joe waited silently, a shadow filled the golden rectangle of light spilling in from the open door. A hand reached out and switched on the light as the innocent youth entered the room. “What the fuck, dude!” Jake cried out in the split second before Joe lunged out from behind the door and cracked the boy across the back of the head with the metal weight.

Jake grunted and whirled around. Joe’s attuned killer’s mind flashed an image of the kid’s face—buzz-cut blond hair that grew a little longer on top, turning into a fauxhawk, broad cheeks below large pale blue eyes. His wide, full lips were surrounded by a faint but wiry sandy-blond goatee.

The kid’s body was even more chiseled and defined than Andy’s was. He’d evidently already slipped off a hoodie pullover; it was still in his hand. The cutoff t-shirt he wore did nothing to hide his ripped abs, nor did the metallic gray ball shorts fail to highlight the perfectly-formed legs rising up out of his gray and white Nike Flight Falcon hightops. The young stud had clearly just come home from his own workout.

Joe took it all in with the space of about a second and a half—the length of time it took for Jake’s body to react to the knockout blow. Reaching one thickly-muscled arm to the back of his head with a confused expression in his face, the boy’s eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled helplessly to the floor.

The faint, subdued moan that emerged from Andy’s blocked mouth was all that was left of his despairing wail at the realization that his friend could no longer save him.

“Fuck yeah, dude,” Joe laughed in pleasure, “I get a twofer. Your buddy is straight? Too bad—sucks to be him.”

With an evil chuckle, the powerful alpha began stripping the strong, brawny youth. “And it’s about to suck even worse…”

With wide, helpless eyes, Andy watched the psycho stranger peel Jake’s body nude. Joe found that the second young man was as tall as he was. He wasn’t quite as muscled, but Joe was still glad he’d gotten the drop on the bitch or there might have been a struggle. Not that Joe was worried about taking down either of these two fuckers in a fight; he just didn’t want the neighbors alerted.

After all, he was gonna be here a while. His plans for the evening had just gotten a lot more detailed.

Jake’s firm, smooth body had only the faintest hint of golden peachfuzz dusting the silky skin stretched tautly over his muscles. Grabbing the waistband of the cunt’s shorts, Joe yanked them off roughly, taking a pair of green and blue striped boxers off at the same time. He pulled them over Jake’s hightops, leaving the kid his Nikes.

Looking around swiftly, Joe noticed the pile of hangers that had been dislodged from the dresser. He reached out and grabbed on, quickly untwisting it to make a long length of wire. Standing over Jake, the sadistic alpha flipped the boy’s limp form on his face and pinned his arms behind his back. With a couple of rapid movements, he soon re-twisted the wire around Jake’s wrists in a simple but extremely effective binding. Now all he needed was something for the feet…

There—draped over the closet doorknob. A jump rope; perfect. In a flash, it was impenetrably wound around the young stud’s legs, just above his gray Nikes.

With a loud grunt, Joe dragged the unconscious boy to the bed. Andy’s queen-sized bed was against the wall on one side; Andy was tied to the other, leaving a space between him and the wall. It took some effort—the buff motherfucker weighed almost 200 pounds—but Joe was able to toss Jake over Andy’s thrashing body. The blond punk hit the wall with a thump, falling limply back onto the bed.

Stripped to the waist, Joe strode to the drawers where his aviator jacket lay. Digging into the pocket, he fished out his pack of smokes and lit one, turning back to the two helpless youths lying bound side-by-side on the bed.

Andy, still fully conscious, stared up at the hulking sadist he’d unwittingly let into his home. A handsome, arrogant punk, he was unable to fully comprehend the implications of his situation; he only knew that he was in serious trouble. What defined “trouble” was something his mind shied away from…

As he jerked vainly on the bed, Andy could feel Jake’s muscled, insensate form next to him. The struggling youth was in a fair amount of discomfort; the wadded-up shirt in his mouth filled his sinuses with the sour tang of his assailant’s sweat while the rough leather belt was cutting into the skin at his wrists.

But the cigarette was what angered him. He didn’t smoke and didn’t want his room polluted. It was a stupid thing to fixate on, given the situation, but the hot young stud wasn’t in a position to think rationally. There was little he could do to stop it, but he did what he could—it consisted of kicking and thrashing as loud grunts of protest emerged thickly from his gagged mouth.

Joe tapped his ash on the boy’s flat, furry belly. “What’s wrong, bitch? Ya not inta smoke?” With that, he exhaled a cloud into Andy’s face and dropped the smoldering butt, grinding it out on the carpet with his heavy construction boot.

The bound youth’s outraged grunting increased in pitch and tempo, tripping a warning in Joe’s killer brain. “Goddammit, faggot, you’re squeakin’ too much—shut the fuck up!” He slammed his fist into Andy’s jaw with wide, roundhouse punch that knocked the kid’s head back. The force of the blow was so strong, it actually knocked the balled-up shirt free of Andy’s mouth.

The young Asian stud coughed violently as his airway was unexpectedly cleared. He blinked in confusion, shuddering in pain from the impact on his jaw. As his vision cleared, the alpha top was standing over him, his incredibly well-sculpted torso outlined by the light in the far corner.

More ominously, the light also illuminated the stranger’s huge, fully-erect dick. As Andy watched in almost hypnotic horror, he could see it visibly throb, forcing small clear drops from the swollen, purple head in a steady stream.

Joe’s smile became deeper, more shark-like as he climbed on the bed. “So you ain’t had anyone up yer fuckhole yet, huh? What kinda worthless fag are ya, cunt? Gonna fix that for ya right now, dude—after all, ya don’t wanna die a virgin, do ya?”

“What?” Andy yelped. The bald, cold mention of death shocked him to his core.

While he tried to process it, Joe squirmed between his legs. Suddenly, Andy found Joe on top of him, his own legs wrapped around his tormentor’s slick, hard flanks and held in place by the polyester running shorts around his ankles.

When he’d slipped those shorts on that afternoon, he’d had no idea that they’d be used to facilitate his rape later that day.

All thoughts of clothing or his day—or pretty much anything—were driven from Andy’s mind when Joe brutally rammed his thick, erect shaft up the kid’s virgin-tight asshole. The terrible, rending pain in his sphincter, the horrific slashing sensation in his colon, claimed his entire attention.

He couldn’t scream. It was too much, too intense. He tried, inhaling deeply and doing his damnedest to shriek at the top of his voice, but the agony shifted his exertions to overdrive and all he could accomplish was a loud, gurgling wheeze.

Flopping back on the bed and shuddering in excruciating pain, Andy had no choice but to submit to his attacker’s cock. As his body was wracked with violent rape, he somehow became aware of a commotion to his side.

Jake was waking up.

The hot straight boy came to in an unimaginable nightmare. Bound and helpless, he fought his way to consciousness through waves of crushing pain in his head. As he became aware of himself and his surroundings, he realized that he was tied up and on his back on a bed. The next thing that worked into his aching awareness was noise and activity to his immediate right. He could feel hard, muscular limbs thrashing sweatily against him and hear an agonized squealing, like that of a stuck pig.

It took a while for him to register that the source of the sound was his roommate being viciously assaulted. And even then, his mainstream jock mentality was utterly incapable of understanding that Andy was being cruelly raped. Jake knew nothing more than his own helplessness and Andy’s mewling agony.

His sharp, darting eyes spied a screwdriver on the nightstand. Andy had used it to tighten up a loose screw on his weight set, never imagining the untold horrors in store when, finished with the tool, he tossed it heedlessly aside. Joe seized on it like a gift.

Slipping the long steel shank of the screwdriver through the decorative ring in the unfortunate youth’s choker, Joe began twisting it like a garrote. Each revolution of the screwdriver drew the thick leather band tighter and tighter around Andy’s neck…

The boy gave a terrified yelp before his air was closed off for good. Jake was still groggy from the blow to the back of his head; he had no idea what was happening, but he recognized the panic and fear in his buddy’s stifled cry. He could feel Andy’s sweaty, muscled legs thrashing in terror; despite his pinned ankles, the bound youth was unintentionally flailing against his trapped roommate in his hysteric frenzy.

And it was a frenzy. It was finally sinking in; the cocky punk was realizing that this was gonna be worse than bad—he could die.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d just met an anonymous hookup online so he could get a quick BJ before his roommate got home.

And now he was tied to the bed, getting raped and strangled—and Jake was bound, nude and struggling, right next to him. Watching him get fucked.

Watching him die.

Clenching his hands into fists, Andy jerked wildly against the rough leather belt wrapped around the metal headboard but all he succeeded in doing was scraping his wrists bloody. He didn’t notice the pain; it was negligible compare the huge shaft tearing into his guts, reaming his colon relentlessly. As his hard body heaved and jerked under the violent sexual assault, his own long cock bounced and slapped against his belly. Much like his wrists, the fact that he was slowly getting erect also escaped his notice.

He was able to experience more than the assfuck, though. His own leather choker was sinking into his throat, gradually and incrementally. The first few turns of the makeshift garrote had been swift, done to cut his air off and shut him up quickly.

After that, Joe was more deliberate. Resting his full weight on that of the warm, furry kid beneath him, the cruel killer took his time with slow half-twists of the screwdriver, watching the black leather band slowly disappear into the puckered skin around it. But then, a distraction—

“What the fuck, man?” Jake squawked, terror giving his voice a high pitch that caused his attempt at a threatening growl to fail miserably. “What’s goin’ on? Andy? Dude? What the fuck is happening?” His voice shook with impending tears.

Turning back, he hocked up a wad of phlegm and spat it into Andy’s darkening face. “Course, I’ll have already blown a load by then, so I’m gonna have to be a little more…inventive with you. So pay attention, you queer-ass cunt; what’s happenin’ now is just gonna be foreplay to you.”

Jake gasped out loud as the brutal killer grinned and continued to pump his shaft up Andy’s torn hole. As his buddy’s legs flopped raggedly against his own, the well-built boy struggled furiously—but fruitlessly—against the wire that had been wrapped multiple times around his wrists.

He didn’t accept the situation without protest, of course. “You’re a fuckin’ lunatic!” he screamed in pure terror. “I ain’t gay! Andy ain’t gay! We’re just roommates, asswipe; we’ve known each other since high school!”

Joe laughed contemptuously as he reached down and forced Andy’s head roughly to the right. “Look at yer friend, fag,” he hissed into the boy’s swelling, horror-filled face, “lookit him good when he finds out…”

The sadistic alpha whipped his head back round to Jake, beaming with malevolent glee. “You ain’t gay, you cocksucking queerboy? Huh? And this cunt ain’t no cum-gobblin’ homo either, huh? I met him on a gay app, bitch, lookin’ for someone to suck his dick. He’s a faggot; you live with him, so yer a faggot, too. I mean, it only makes sense, right? So quit squealin’ you homo pig, yer gonna die on my cock soon enough.”

Andy heard the words but didn’t process them. He was suffering enough already. A raging fire burned within his broad chest; all the time he’d spent building up his strong pecs had actually increased his ability to retain oxygen. Joe was right, it was gonna take him longer to die—and every second of it was gonna be horrible agony…

The pain in his chest was a hot, fiery pain. The pain in his throat was a cruel, crushing pain. The pain in his head was a pounding, pressurized pain.

The pain in his cock was white-hot and electric.

As his face darkened and his tongue began to protrude, lubed by foamy saliva, his dying brain was swept into a vortex of pain in which his own rock-hard rod played no little part.

“Fuck yeah, cunt,” Joe sighed, his hard, handsome face mere inches from that of his helpless, thrashing victim, “I can feel you dying. Worthless fuckin’ fag, yer gonna die just so you can be my cumdump. Ya like that? Oh hell yeah you do, lookit the way you work my dick as I snuff ya! It ain’t a compliment, you disgusting homo; you’re just battin’ warm-up for your butt-fuckin’ friend over here.”

Jake had watched it all in fascinated horror. It wasn’t a matter of believing Andy was gay or not; this situation was way beyond that point. Andy was getting raped. Andy was getting murdered. Jake had already seen his bud’s face, congested and puffy, turning a terrifying shade of purple. His almond-shaped eyes were almost unrecognizable as they bulged grotesquely, hemorrhages bursting in large red blooms in the whites.

It was the stuff of nightmare. But the physical violence of the sexual assault rammed the reality home in multiple senses.

Joe’s glistening, sculpted torso gleamed in the light as he slowly increased the tempo of his thrusts. Even with the knowledge that Andy was dying and that he was next, Jake still found himself somehow mesmerized by the performance.

And he noticed—he couldn’t help but notice—the way Andy’s tool responded. Motherfucker was gettin’ raped and snuffed—and he was hard.

Maybe he was gay. But Jake wasn’t. He was gonna fight.

Without missing a single thrust of his tempo or a single half-turn of the screwdriver sending his hapless victim into a new wave of convulsions, Joe had managed to follow Jake’s line of thought. Stupid little fuck wasn’t as complicated as he thought. And even if he pretended to be straight to himself, Joe knew he’d be able to squeeze the true faggot pig outta him by the time he died.

Fighting through his terror, Jake found his voice again. “Stop!” he screeched. “I’m gonna fuck you up so bad when I get outta this, dude—let me up NOW!”

Joe only needed one hand to keep the garrote tightened around Andy’s throat. He used the other to backhand Jake across the jaw. He never took his eyes off Andy’s blackening face. “Yer fuckin’ homeboy thinks he’s gettin’ outta this alive. He’s as fuckin’ dead as you are, only he don’t know it yet. He’ll have to feel it to understand it—like you are now, huh, cunt?”

Somehow, over his pain and fear, Andy was aware of Jake lying next to him. A dim, dying corner of his brain had always fantasized about getting his best bud to suck his cock. Now his best bud’s hard nude body pressed helplessly against him, smooth flesh against smooth flesh.

It was a shame Andy wasn’t able to enjoy the sensation.

As the blood flow to his head was increasingly restricted, the pressure behind his forehead became nightmarish. The hot crushing pain in his chest was fading; his broad pecs quivering with approaching death but no longer rising and falling with vain attempts at respiration.

That horrible spike up his ass, though—he could still feel every detail of that. Every single torturous vein wrapped around the thick shaft was detected by his mangled sphincter and sent a silent shriek up his nervous system to a brain already overwhelmed in agony.

Jake was still recovering, both from the force of Joe’s bitchslap and the implication of his impending murder. He was a young, easy-going straight boy; he simply didn’t have the mental equipment to process the concept of a gay rape/snuff. He grew quiet, his mind going into vapor lock as he watched—and felt—the horrific scene playing out right beside him.

He had a close-up view of his roommate’s suffering. Andy’s handsome face, only inches from his, was almost unrecognizable; swollen, black and spewing foamy drool, it was a grotesque caricature of the boy who’d been his friend since high school.

The bound brawny youth was unable to tear his eyes away from Andy’s face. It was as if the spectacle was hypnotic, cruelly forcing Jake into a kind of tunnel vision on his buddy’s face, compelling him, against his will, to note every detail. Involuntarily, he witnessed Andy’s bulging, bloodshot eyes, frantic and desperate; his purple, protruding tongue swollen horribly between split lips—and all of it moving rhythmically, the dying kid’s head bobbing up and down with a swift pace.

And in his panicked paralysis, Jake understood it was bobbing in time to the rapist’s thrusts. He understood that Andy wasn’t just dying; he was dying with a cock up his ass.

What he hadn’t yet internalized what that it was all gonna happen to him, too. Joe did his best to correct the oversight.

The older alpha, his heaving, muscled flanks streaked with sweat, continued to pound Andy’s traumatized fuckhole, reaming his colon mercilessly as the younger stud slid slowly and painfully into death. His panicked yanking at the belt binding became less and less coordinated; he somehow managed to slip his left foot out of his shorts, freeing his legs—but he had suffered so much brain damage by this time that the desperate drumming of his Nikes grew was erratic and convulsive.

The hard-bodied Asian youth was past the point of conscious thought. His strong, strapping body was wracked with agonizing convulsions. His head shook violently side to side in a futile, instinctive attempt to break free of the leather choker sunk deeply into his esophagus; all he accomplished was to send a long white string of drool splattering on Jake’s broad chest.

Andy couldn’t think; he could only feel. And what he felt was indescribable. The horrific burning sensation in his chest and his head was fading into the biting cold of incipient death. Only a few searing flashes of heat remained to illumine his last few seconds on earth. One, white-hot and excruciating, was plunging through his shredded rectum; another, like a heated iron ingot, was crushing his windpipe with an inexorable force.

And there was a third that he no longer had the awareness to deny—the bubbling, boiling cauldron of magma seething in his scrotum and surging along the underside of his erect, pulsating cock. His long tool had been slapping against his flat belly during the sexual assault; Joe felt it strike his own abdomen during some of his deeper plunges into his victim’s guts. Now it was as swollen and purple as Andy’s face and was visibly throbbing.

Joe turned and looked directly into Jake’s stunned face, the younger man’s eyes wide and ringed with dark circles of shock. “Holy fuckin’ shit, cunt, this cumpig is close,” he hissed evilly at the terrified youth. “Here’s how I know he’s a fag—see how hard he is? Now watch him blow a load as I fuck him to death, you sack of shit, cause you’re gonna do the same thing when it happens to you, ya homo cumdump!”

Jake watched in horrified silence as Joe twisted the screwdriver forcefully, cinching the thin but strong leather strap even more tightly around Andy’s neck. Encountering a brief resistance, the sadistic top gave a loud grunt of effort which was rewarded with a loud, sickening crunch. Mere inches away, Jake could see Andy’s head shudder and loll in vivid detail as his handsome young roommate’s esophagus collapsed and his neck snapped under the intense pressure of the garrote he’d chosen to wear as a fashion accessory.

Andy himself experienced it differently. For him, it was a shattering bolt of lightning that lit up the devastated landscape of his nervous system, a savage slash of electrochemical agony that tore through every nerve in his thrashing, convulsing body. Splinters of shattered vertebrae ripped through his spinal cord, leaving the transmission of nerves signals mangled but, cruelly, not completely severed.

As Andy’s brain died of oxygen starvation, a few last sensations were able to penetrate the icy darkness. They were sensations of liquid heat; of molten metal flowing into his ass and out of his cock in a steady stream of basic genetic material…

He was dead before he stopped spewing his load; a jet of ropy, pearly semen that splattered over Joe’s wiry, sweat-matted chest hair.

Joe hunched over the corpse, thrusting his cock convulsively into the flaccid dead hole as he cursed and grunted like a rutting animal, filling the punk’s colon with sperm.

And Jake had seen and heard every second of Andy gruesomely sadistic rape and snuff. And felt it—in fact, he was still feeling it. Andy’s muscled right leg had flopped across Jake’s legs. Even now, the dead dude’s Fingermax Traps were quivering and trembling as a death spasm drew the leg up at the knee, dragging the expensive kicks up Jake’s hairy calves.

Shuddering and panting heavily, sweat glistening on his heaving, muscled body, Joe shifted back. The dead boy’s ass involuntarily disgorged his killer’s dick, streaked with blood and cum. The hulking rapist slipped off the bed, standing for a moment while he caught his breath. He reached around and grabbed his smokes, exhaling a huge cloud of nicotine after swiftly lighting up.

Joe glanced around the room with a low, grim chuckle. As he moved, his thick dick, still hanging out of his jeans, swung in great, lazy circles and spattered drops of cum about the room. The buff stud inhaled deeply; his testosterone, sweat and spunk swirled into a fog of manscent that was tinted with the pheromones of the two boys—and vast amounts of adrenaline, pumped out by terror.

The scene on the bed was enough to make sure he didn’t go limp. Andy was still on his back with his arms bound above his head. The handsome youth was bare, his shirt still around his neck, exposing his broad, furry chest and firm flat belly, both glazed with coagulating semen. His left leg was lying along the edge of the bed, his right still stretched across Jake’s crotch with the black shorts twisted tightly around the ankle. Even in the faint light, Joe could see the dead stud’s smooth thigh quiver in death.

He grinned lewdly, knowing Jake must have been able to feel it on his own long rod, hidden underneath. The strapping blond youth, his tightly muscled arms trapped behind his back by the viciously twisted wire hanger, had turned his head to the wall. He seemed to be resisting any acknowledgement of the horrific situation in which he found himself, denial written deeply in his clenched eyes and gritted teeth.

The cruel alpha strode out of the room, leaving behind an atmosphere of fear, pain and death in Andy’s bedroom. For a moment, the only sound in the gruesome stillness was the corpse’s occasional mindless galvanic twitch.

But Joe had only stepped across the hall to the bathroom. A sudden splashing sound abruptly broke the silence. The violent stranger was pounding a steady stream of piss into the toilet and the noise somehow wormed its way into Jake’s numbed awareness. It went on so long that some dim corner of the stunned youth’s mind began to wonder how much the dude could hold—began to wonder, in fact, if the killer was even human.

And that thought, more than anything else, broke Jake free from his torpor. He’d already seen the man’s power and sadism, but he’d had a vague idea that it had all been expended on poor Andy. But if the guy had anything left, Jake was clearly gonna be next.

Whimpering in terror, the painfully bound young man began squirming on the bed in an attempt, if not to free himself from his bindings, then at least to get off the bed and perhaps to a window to call for help. Suddenly, he found himself writhing slowly on top of Andy’s still-quivering corpse. It was too much for Jake; he started blubbering—a very bad move. Joe heard the noise and stormed furiously back into the room.

The callous alpha laughed cruelly when he saw Jake positioned on top of his roommate. “Lookitya, you fuckin’ death pig fag,” he crowed obnoxiously, “I ain’t gone five minutes and yer tryin’ to hump your dead fuckbuddy! Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you get to enjoy his corpse—startin’ now.”

Joe towered over the bed, his broad shadow thrown ominously across the bodies of the two young men on the bed, one living and one dead. His thick hog, still pulsating, dangled over the shuddering youth who cowered beneath him. The blond boy was tall and almost as well-built as his assailant, but brutal mental shock had overwhelmed his physical assets.

He needed more of the same, Joe realized. A little more humiliation—a little more tenderizing.

Maybe a little foot worship. He liked the idea of the hot blond blue-eyed stud working his feet, but he had a better idea.

He repositioned the punk by grabbing his head with both hands and yanking it down to the point he wanted it. Before Jake knew what was happening, Andy’s Nikes were in front of his face—specifically, the left one.

“Take it off him,” he commanded harshly.

Jake was still far too confused to understand. He remained motionless.

“Use your mouth, you goddam pervert. You had worse in there than this homo’s feet anyway, I bet. Do it!”

The situation was so surreal, so disorienting that Jake obeyed the ring of command in the older man’s voice almost without conscious thought. Bending his head down, he took the tip of one of the laces in his mouth, his teeth closing tightly on the plastic aglet at the tip. Yanking his head back, he managed to undo the laces with a single jerk.

The brutal sadist still had his hands on each side of Jake’s head. To enforce his orders, he began to squeeze. His victim understood the warning; the only way to ease the crushing pain was to submit, to obey.

Jake glanced down at the black and gray Fingertrap Max sneaker. Andy’s foot was turned to the side in death; Jake noticed a loop of fabric at the top of the heel tab. Burying his head by his bud’s still-shuddering kick, Jake took the tab between his teeth and began the long, slow process of working the sneaker off Andy’s foot.

It took several minutes. Every time Jake started to slow his efforts to pull the dead stud’s sneaker off, Joe reapplied pressure to his head, his biceps bulging as he crushed the fucker’s skull. He never said a word; he just applied massive pain whenever his victim seemed to tire. It was several minutes of silent terror, agony, and struggle.

Finally, after unimaginable damage to his psyche—to say nothing of the faint but terrifying cracking sounds from his cranium—Jake managed to work the sneaker off. The moment he did, Joe let go, allowing the kid to shake his head like a dog, tossing the sneak across the room.

Joe allowed Jake a good thirty seconds of gasping recovery before reminding him that he wasn’t done. “Took ya long enough, motherfucker; ya need to do better than that with his sock.”

Cringing in humiliation, Jake had no choice but to comply. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been trying to break free every single moment since this insane nightmare had started; all he’d succeeded in doing was to chafe his ankles bloody with the jump rope and embed the wire hanger into his wrists so deeply that his fists went numb, then began the cold, agonizing ache of nerve death.

The nightmarish nature, the sheer bizarreness of the situation acted on the youth like a fog descending on his brain. He’d been a typical straight boy, not so much stupid as naïve. He had no exit strategy for his current predicament for the very good reason that he’d never imagined that someone like Joe existed.

And now, here he was, feeling the smooth, cooling flesh of Andy’s ankle pressing against his lips as he took the top edge of the dead punk’s ped sock in his teeth and slowly began maneuvering it off the quivering foot. As he slipped it off, his face slid down the slightly rough surface of the sole.

Freeing the sock from the foot, he turned his head away from Andy and spat it out. Rising back up on his knees, he fell back away from the corpse’s feet, his head ending up near Andy’s midsection as the abused boy gasped in despair and painful exhaustion.

The calculating killer was determined to press his advantage. “Lick him, you sack of shit,” he hissed evilly at his sniveling victim, “Lick that spunk off his belly, you fuckin’ cunt.”

The words pierced the fog of terror that had clouded Jake’s mind. The buff blond turned to his tormenter with an incredulous look on his handsome face. “Wh-what?” he quavered, his voice cracking in shock and disbelief. This wasn’t just different than the thing with Andy’s foot—this was horrible, disgusting—and gay. And Jake wasn’t gay.

Joe snarled down into the wide blue eyes staring at him in shock. “Goddamit, I said lick him, you stupid cocksucker!” he barked, backhanding Jake across the face. “Get your tongue out and start slurping up your boyfriend’s cum, you worthless bitch.”

Jake’s head swung under the blow, but he still hesitated, torn between terror and revulsion. Joe next statement was what motivated him. “Suck up that sperm or I’ll kill you right fuckin’ now, you disgusting waste of flesh.”

Slowly, tremulously, the muscled young stud placed his face near Andy’s flat, spunk-glazed belly, still jerking occasionally as random nerves fired in death. He stuck his tongue out tentatively and immediately froze. Suddenly, the killer’s hand clamped across the back of his head like a vice and shoved him down abruptly.

Jake’s mind did not process the events of the next few minutes; the boy didn’t think about what was happening—he only endured as he was forced to clean his dead friend’s semen off his corpse, using only his mouth. Joe, on the other hand, memorized—and took great sadistic pleasure in—every last detail.

He particularly got off on the way he could feel the panicked sweat mat the kid’s short blond hair, and the way Jake’s head bobbed in his hand as the boy gagged and choked with repugnance. “Fuck yeah, show me what a good cumsucker you are and I might let ya live, faggot,” he chuckled quietly.

Not so quiet that Jake couldn’t hear. Shuddering in disgust and fear, he shut off as much of his consciousness as he could and continued to slurp the cold, salty, jellied spooge off Andy’s abdomen, pausing occasionally to spit out one of the dead boy’s wiry body hairs.

And somewhere in the depths of his brain, he cursed his dead buddy. He deflected the psychological trauma by blaming Andy for bringing this sadistic sociopath into their home, goddammit, Andy, if ya wanted dick, I don’t take dick but I’d have given ya mine—

Then he swallowed a thick wad of cum. Horrified, he started coughing violently and retching, his entire body heaving as he desperately tried not to vomit.

He didn’t know what the vicious psycho would do to him if he vomited, and he didn’t want to find out. But the effort was overwhelming; his hard body jerked and twitched with the strain, his taut muscles quivering as sweat trickled down his smooth skin.

Joe pulled him up abruptly and angrily. “Keep it down, you fuck, so help me, if you puke that spunk, I’ll fuck you up nice and slow.” But even with this threat, Jake’s gag reflex was kicking in; despite his best efforts, Andy’s salty, slimy load clung to the sides of his throat. His heaving got stronger.

“Holy fuckin’ shit, you really are worthless, aintcha?” Joe sneered in contempt as Jake struggled not to throw up. The punk’s straight blond hair was just long enough for the alpha to grab a handful; he brutally jerked the young man up onto his knees one the bed. “Spoiler alert, dude—I’m gonna skullfuck ya. But I damn sure ain’t gonna get no fag puke on my cock, motherfucker. Guess I’m gonna hafta plug ya up first. Lessee, what’ll work…”

Looking around, Joe spied Andy’s white ped sock, still wet with Jake’s saliva. “Yeah, man, this’ll work,” he said as he balled it up and forced it into Jake’s mouth. Then he held his middle finger up in front of the boy’s stunned blue eyes, smiled, and used the finger to shove the sock into Jake’s throat. “There ya go, asswipe. Go ahead and try to barf that spooge up now and you’ll choke on it.”

The powerful alpha smirked, his dominance utterly unquestionable at this point. The well-built, athletic youth was helpless, utterly within his control. Joe could do what he wanted with Jake.

And what he wanted was so very, very cruel. But he wanted to neutralize the possibility of any injury. He’d notice a ragged piece of cloth on the nightstand, only partially visible behind the lamp. Reaching out for it, he found it to be an old hand towel, threadbare, torn—and stiff.

And reeking of mansex. It was Andy’s cumrag.

With sudden inspiration, Joe tore it in half. He wadded each half up into a small ball of spunk-soaked fabric. “Open your mouth, cunt, or I’ll open it for you,” he said in an even tone of voice that was menacing in its lack of threat. He could, and would do what he said.

Jake had to obey. His soul burned with rage and rebellion—but he had to obey. He had no choice. He opened his mouth wide, but he was determined that he wasn’t gonna submit without some show of resistance. And this motherfucker might just have given him his best shot. Closing his eyes, he awaited Joe’s dick.

What he got, instead, were wads of Andy’s cumrag shoved into the back of his mouth, so deep into the angles of his jaws that he couldn’t close them. Between them and Andy’s sock, he was gagging on his dead bud’s body fluids. He turned his wide blue eyes, now huge with stunned terror, up the powerful older man looming over him.

Tears began welling in Jake’s eyes. His one plan—his one chance to escape—the alpha had seen through it. He was truly helpless now. This couldn’t be happening. Whatever was going on, whatever he had to endure, he was gonna survive this. He was gonna fight for every last second of his life.

Joe saw it all in the defenseless punk’s face and was very happy. “Good,” he whispered almost inaudibly, “fight me. Work me. Milk me…”

Shifting his heavy, unlaced boots on the floor, the hulking sadist leered menacingly down at the subjugated boy. The seductively innocent, happy-go lucky expression that was natural to Jake had been wrenched into a mask of shock and fear. His silky skin, bulging over his muscles, was slick with sweat. As he gagged and coughed on Andy’s sock, spittle flew from his mouth, painfully propped open by the dead dude’s crusty cumrag.

And as he gurgled in soul-crushing revulsion, Jake saw Joe’s enormous cock coming straight at him like a scene from a 3D movie. The thick, pulsing rod of flesh was oozing clear liquid from its swollen purple head.

Jake, for all his cocky young bravado, was in such terror that he’d have pissed himself if he hadn’t emptied his bladder in the shower in the gym. This was something beyond his imagination; something against which he was helpless simply because it was something of which he was incapable of conceiving. It was a surreal nightmare. The cloth items jammed into his mouth, the salty tang of Andy’s seed on his tongue—it wasn’t real.

Then Joe made it real. Before Jake knew what was happening, his mouth was full of cock. And by the time he did know what was happening, his throat was full of cock too.

The buff young stud coughed and gagged, his eyes watering with the sudden strenuous effort required to breathe around sock and cock. Kneeling on the bed with the killer’s hands on the back of his head, Jake was gruesomely reminded of Andy’s corpse when a random twitch caused the dead punk’s right foot—the one with the Nike still tightly laced on—to faintly, almost caressingly, rub against his leg.

Even as the crushing iron grip of the inexorable alpha relentlessly forced Jake to take more and more of the huge throbbing shaft into his mouth, he was aware of the mesh upper of his roommate’s sneaker slowly scraping him just above the knee. He could feel Andy’s shoe, but not his own; the jump rope was tied around his ankles so tightly that by this time, his numb feet were beginning to ache from extended loss of blood flow. His own Nike hightops were filled with paralyzed lumps of flesh.

Joe was inflicting his gigantic hog on the muscular young man with utter ruthlessness. The deeper he plunged down the fucker’s esophagus, the more it narrowed around his tool, a velvety cylinder lubed with spit that tightly embraced his dick.

“Goddam, cunt, you suck cock good,” he chuckled, a guttural note of pleasure reverberating deeply in his voice. “You musta sucked yer buddy’s cock a lot to get that good, you worthless homo pervert. I bet you swallowed gallons of his cum, huh? Yeah, faggot? Ya fuckin’ queens go get all hot an’ horny at the gym and then come home and suck each other off?”

With the deep growl of an untamed animal, he thrust his fully-erect rod brutally down the bound boy’s throat. “Suck my dick, you pansy-ass motherfucker!” he grunted. A sudden sensation on the fat, mushroom-shaped head of his cock gave Joe a momentary pause before he realized it was the sock he’d shoved into the meat’s mouth to shut it up.

With a truly evil grin, the cruel alpha tensed his bulging biceps and with a quick jerk of his powerful arms, forced Jake’s head all the way down. Unable to close his mouth because of the wadded cumrag shoved in his jaw, the well-built straight boy was utterly helpless as the pulsing, vein-wrapped penis completely plugged his windpipe, forcing the balled-up sock down into the trachea.

In the first few moments of shock and denial, Jake’s mind focused exclusively on the one aspect of his living nightmare that he could somehow understand—the scratching on his face.

Pubic hair. Another dude’s pubes were in his face. What the fuck? How—how had this happened? He’d gone to do his usual routine after work. Andy was at the gym already, as usual, and had left earlier, as usual—then Jake had come home. As usual.

And now Andy was dead, violated and murdered. And some dude’s pubes were in his face. What the fuck?

And then a new imperative arose. His full attention swung from “what the fuck is going on” to “why the fuck can’t I breathe” in an instant. But, while Jake might have been a jock, he wasn’t a dumb jock. It took less than five seconds without oxygen for him to realize what was happening.

The same thing that had happened to Andy.

He wasn’t gonna let it happen. His earlier resolve had melted in terror; sheer physical distress was causing it to recrystallize. He jerked backwards abruptly, trying to pull out of the agonizing iron cage formed by his assailant’s hands.

Joe laughed out loud. “You ain’t getting’ off my cock that easy, faggot,” he chortled in malicious glee. “You stupid queerboy bitches are all the same—ya can’t take my dick, worthless little pansies, huh? Get the fuck back down on my shaft, you useless motherfucker, you ain’t done suckin’ my spunk out yet. C’mon, you piece of shit, quit fightin’—trust me, asswipe, it ain’t gonna matter in a few minutes. In fact, ain’t nothin’ gonna matter to ya in a few minutes, meatsack!”

The muscles in the corner of his hard, firm jaw bunched up as he gritted his teeth and savagely thrust his engorged rod back down Jake’s reamed-out esophagus. The brutal, cold-blooded top grunted with pleasure as he felt the panicked young stud writhing under him, the thrashing movement of the kid’s head massaging him beautifully.

Jake’s forced-open jaw distorted his broad, handsome face, but it was Andy’s ped sock being rammed down his throat that was making his skin swell and darken. It was as if a white cotton plug was being inserted by a piston—except most pistons weren’t vein-wrapped and throbbing. Or oozing at the tip.

The husky young man was straining his muscles in an instinctual but futile attempt to break his bonds; the effort wrung a steady stream of frantic sweat from his body, giving his smooth skin a pungent, glossy sheen. He was just as unaware of it as he was of the purple, grotesque mask that had once been his face. He was too focused on survival to notice much else.

Deep in the pressurized agony of asphyxiation, Jake could hear his heart beat; his head was pounding in the same wild tempo as his pulse. He was in such pain that adjectives had lost meaning: crushing exploding searing icy—all could, in some way or another, describe what he was experiencing. But then there were no words to describe the entirety.

And if there were words to describe the sensation in his own dick, he didn’t want to know them—although he already did. He had a hard-on, he’d popped a boner, he was sporting wood.

He was dying with an erection. That-that wasn’t supposed to happen. Ever.

His mind, fleeing from the implication, ran smack into the swollen, dripping cock in his mouth. And even then, some part of his consciousness was acutely aware of his own shaft, bobbing in the open air, itself dripping onto Andy’s cooling corpse. And that’s when his psyche shattered and Jake, the cocky young stud ceased to exist.

All that was left was fuckmeat that could only react to sensations, unable to feel more than pain and some basic animal emotions. In a sense, Jake had already been fucked to death; his body simply didn’t realize it yet.

It’d catch on soon enough. Joe’s huge shaft had lodged the wadded sock so deeply into the cunt’s trachea that the coroner missed it during the autopsy. Even if he pulled out now, Jake was still doomed to suffocation—not, of course, that Joe had any intention of pulling out.

Not when it was getting so good…

“That’s it, faggot, let go. Give up, you scumshit homo, you lost. Go on and die. It feels so fuckin’ good, havin’ ya twitch and kick away yer last few seconds of life on my tool. Yeah, motherfucker, that’s why I’m doin’ all this—just so I can blow my load by makin’ yeah into meat.”

With a deep grunt, he tightened his biceps further, tendons standing out on his forearms as he ground the unlucky boy’s face into his groin, his wiry pubes scraping his victim’s excruciatingly swollen skin like steel wool. “Die, pig,” he barked gutturally, “swallow my sperm and die. You know you wanna, ya queer-ass fuck, yer hard as fuckin’ rock yerself.”

Jake heard the words, but like Andy before him, was too far along the path of brain death to be able to understand. If he had, he might have agreed. Sunk into a cold dark maelstrom of pounding silent agony, he could still feel an even sharper agony, an even more penetrating pounding emanating from his crotch. He was past the point of understanding that he was feeling his own erection, an unnaturally strong physical reaction to his death by oxygen deprivation. He only knew of a white-hot searing sensation in his scrotum accompanied by a piercing sensation running along the length of his straining cock.

Joe could feel heat in his own scrotum. As Jake began to convulse violently, he bobbed his head up and down deeply but erratically on Joe’s massive rod while his esophagus clenched and relaxed in uncontrollable muscle spasms. The buff faggot stud was at the moment of death; it was what the sadistic alpha had been waiting for.

With a curse and a strangled cry, Joe ground Jake’s head viciously into his groin, shoving his cock as far as he could into the helpless youth’s skull. His orgasm seemed to go on forever; he seemed to be spewing a solid pint of semen down Jake’s throat. Shuddering violently, Joe inhaled, renewed his grip—and shot a second stream of cum into the dying homo.

“Fuck!” he screamed, shoving the meatsack away and stepping back, his enormous purple hog throbbing and pushing out pearls of spunk with each pulse. Gasping with exertion, his powerful, sweaty flanks heaving, Joe could see that Jake was still on his knees—and wasn’t quite dead.

And then he died. Joe had just a split-second to recognize what was happening and turn his head as the punk’s beautifully-built body started to writhe and buck like a bronco. In an instant, Jake’s back spasmed brutally, bending his body backwards in an arc. This massive death convulsion was enough to trigger the boy’s orgasm.

It was a shame he was too brain-dead to enjoy it; it was the most intense load he ever shot in his short, wasted life. The physical motion of the body added momentum to the white, ropy fountain of semen that erupted from his painfully tumescent shaft; he ended up spraying cum like a fire hose, spattering Joe’s huge, muscular form with spooge from about waist height—just above his jeans—up to his slightly scruffy cheek, causing his belly fur and chest hair, already matted with sweat, to become even crustier. If the top hadn’t turned away at the last moment, he’d have gotten Jake’s death load right in his face.

Joe turned back, warm, wet seed trickling down his face, to watch Jake’s last five seconds alive. The boy had come bolt upright on his knees. His face was black, with white foamy streaks of drool oozing from the corners of his mouth, long streamers of spit dangling from his chin. His bulging, blood-red eyes seemed to peer out of his gruesomely twisted face with a kind of frantic, desperate appeal—one last attempt to deny the reality of the death that was already taking him down. But the bathos was belied by the vacancy behind the eyes—this wasn’t a plea for mercy; it was an involuntary reaction to random nerve impulses.

Jake was already dead. In the next moment, he went limp, falling sideways like a sack of potatoes.

He fell on top of Andy. Except for the fact that his legs were bent behind him at the knee so that his Nike Flight Falcon hightops kicked at the bare sheets, it looked like the two boys had curled together to comfort each other in death.

Joe looked down at himself. “Fuckin’ disgustin’ fags,” he muttered, “I was too easy on you pieces a’ shit; ya shoulda died harder.”

The fact that he’d left his heavy beige construction boots untied came in handy; he was able to slip the off quickly. Peeling off his socks and jeans, he swiftly crossed to the bathroom.

It took longer than expected for the hot water to come on; he spent the time wandering Andy’s bedroom, having a smoke and poking through the drawers. Just in case there was anything valuable; he wasn’t specifically a thief—but these two motherfuckers didn’t need money no more, that was for damn sure. No sense letting anything go to waste—besides the used-up fuckmeat, that is…

He’d flicked his ashes around the room at random; when he noticed steam coming from the bathroom, he went back in, tossing his butt in the toilet. He didn’t flush until he got back out of the shower though; he didn’t want to disturb the temperature balance of the water.

Once he was done cleaning himself, Joe was surprised to find that he was hungry. Then again, he’d been unusually active tonight. It had been his first twofer—and had been totally spontaneous. It wasn’t as if he’d planned on the second fag showing up.

Still stark nude, he padded though the apartment and found the kitchen. It only took a few minutes of rummaging to find the bread, cheese and lunchmeat. Munching his sandwich contentedly, Joe continued to stroll through the place at his leisure, opening cabinets and closets, doing his best to violate the dead punks’ privacy. Feeling much more energetic after eating, Joe returned to the death room to retrieve his clothing. First the socks, then he wriggled into his jeans.

It was while he leaned against the wall to slip his boots back on that the feeling came over him; something he’d wondered about, but had never actually appealed to him before. But now…

Having gotten both boots on, Joe stood silently, looking at the corpses. Andy was dead long enough to be still, his face only slightly swollen and nearly normal in color, gravity having drained the blood to the back. His hands were still above his head; Joe stepped forward and untied his belt from around the cold, nerveless wrists. The perverted killer threaded the thick leather strap back through the denim loops of his tight jeans as he continued to admire his work.

Andy’s neck was constricted to an almost unbelievable extent, the leather choker sunk so deeply into his throat that it couldn’t be seen. The screwdriver that had been run through the metal ring had ended up propped against dead punk’s chin. The fucker’s head was bent into a disturbingly unnatural position, a result of the shattering of his spinal column.

Andy’s slightly furred legs were no longer twitching; his one remaining Nike lay still—although the toes on his bare foot seemed to curl faintly on occasion.

On top of him, Jake’s body was still learning that it was dead. As the straight boy’s personality dissolved into an electrochemical stew, it churned out random pulses along the dying nerves—Jake was still shuddering in his death throes. His bulging eyes, rolled back to reveal nothing but bloodstained whites, showed clearly that there was no one home inside the quivering sack of meat. His protruding tongue scraped over his dead buddy’s cheek in a move that they both might have enjoyed if they were still alive.

Too late for that now.

Jake had suffered the same cadaveric spasm as Andy; even in death, his well-developed muscles had betrayed him by clenching tight at the base of his cock, already engorged with blood far beyond normal limits. As the muscles stiffened in death, both boys were left with firm, lean corpses with raging hard-ons.

As the blond boy convulsed in his death throes, his long, thick tool slapped repeatedly against Andy’s belly; a loud smacking sound filled the room. The sound of someone getting dickslapped…

It was too much for Joe. He wanted a piece of that action. Elbowing Jake’s shuddering body aside, the powerful, strapping alpha straddled Andy’s chest. The Asian youth was gorgeous even in death; Joe’s semi-hard shaft, so recently emptied, sprang back to full attention as he gazed into the glazed thousand-yard stare in the dead youth’s almond eyes.

Leaning forward, he thrust his swollen member into Andy’s mouth, taking ultimate advantage of a victim who was truly helpless to resist. There was nothing the well-built boy could do to prevent his corpse getting skullfucked. The unfortunate kid had gone online looking for a quick BJ; now, he and his roommate had both been raped and brutally murdered—even their corpses not immune to violation…

As Andy’s dry, swollen tongue scraped the underside of Joe’s huge corpse, the hulking alpha’s oozing precum provided all the lube he needed. But it was the constriction in the body’s throat when he was fully inserted, that felt so good to the evil killer. He knew that he was feeling the crushed cartilage that had killed the queer-ass motherfucker; he was fucking the faggot right in the place that killed him—

With a loud groan, Joe shuddered and unloaded an enormous wad of semen into Andy’s head. He spunked so hard, the cum backed up from the closed-off esophagus and trickled out of Andy’s nostrils like white, pearly snot.

And he was still horny. He still had more seed to unload. Joe couldn’t explain it himself; maybe these two gym rats were pumping out their own pheromones. Whatever—it didn’t matter.

What mattered was that he needed to cum. Again.

Dragging Andy’s cold, stiffening corpse off the bed, he tossed it on the floor like the pile of rotting meat it was. Turning back to Jake’s still-kicking body, he remembered the dead punk’s claim to be straight. Grinning nastily, Joe decided to put it to the test. If he was straight, then Joe’d pop the corpse’s cherry. And if that happened—oh well, stupid cunt just got home at the wrong time.

Joe could live with that, even if his victims couldn’t.

Rolling the warm, pulsing corpse onto its belly, Joe penetrated Jake’s quivering sphincter with a single thrust, moaning with pleasure as the dead boy’s still-trembling colon accepted his throbbing hog with an almost conscious eagerness. There was still a momentary resistance that confirmed his claim to virginity; Joe had torn the cunt’s ass muscle in two separate places.

Stupid piece of shit. Served him right for coming home when he wasn’t supposed to. Got what he deserved, dumb-ass motherfucker; probably was still suckin’ down his ass-bandit roomie’s loads as often as he could.

Jake was a better fag dead than alive; he certainly seemed more intent on milking out Joe’s sperm than he had while he was still in control of himself. Joe smiled. He understood. That was all faggots really needed—someone to control them when they were so obviously unable to control themselves. And the best way to dominate, to prove his control, was to inflict pain to the point of death.

That’s how they knew. That’s how fags knew he was the one to put them down. They loved it, worthless disgusting perverts, every one of them, they always blew a huge death wad as he wrung their useless lives right out of their hot, hard young bodies—

Joe was fucking Jake’s corpse in such a rage, stoked by the way the dead punk’s rectum still managed to pulse and stroke his sensitive, distended mushroom tip, that he felt the heat boiling up from his balls almost before he knew what was happening. At the last moment, he grabbed hold of Jake’s head, the blond boy’s face still horribly black and swollen from suffocation.

And then the rodeo was on.

This was Joe’s fourth orgasm in about forty-five minutes; he was past the point of control himself. He gripped the smooth, firm corpse tightly to brace himself for the physical impact, but even he was unprepared for the intense reaction he had.

The hairy, hard-bodied alpha clenched his muscles with a convulsive brutality as he injected a steady, searing jet of semen into the dead body. Sweating and grunting, he cursed violently, his arms jerking back on Jake’s head. As the lifeless face, still oozing foamy spittle, snapped backward with ruthless force, Joe head a sound like a tree limb fracturing and found himself looking directly into the blond stud’s dull eyes, their bright blue coloring diluted by a certain milkyness.

Fuck. He’d snapped Jake’s neck too. Oh well.

Still shaky with pleasure, Joe slowly withdrew his pulsating shaft from the dead boy. It slid out on a slimy trickle of spunk; the cold-blooded killer looked around and found a jockstrap on the floor next to the dresser. He quickly wiped his glistening member off, tossing the impromptu cumrag into the corner.

Digging his cigarettes out of his pocket, he contemplated the scene in front of him, trying to decide the best way of leaving it. While his DNA might be linked to the other kills, he wasn’t on file—and given his low profile, he wasn’t worried about that aspect of it. Still, it might make it easier if he just started a fire and burned the place down.

But the boys were still so hot, even dead with their necks snapped. Their helpless, well-cared-for bodies were somehow still irresistible. Joe couldn’t quite figure it out—and then he could. Cadaveric spasm hadn’t subsided yet for either of them. The dead fags’ dicks were still hard.

Well, hell—that gave him a sick idea. Two horny homos dying on each other’s cocks? Fuckin’ hot!

Andy had ended up on the floor on his back, pretty much spread-eagled, his impossibly erect shaft towering above his flat, furry belly. He was already perfectly in position; all Joe needed to do was set Jake up. That took a bit longer; the well-built youth had left a heavy corpse.

Joe dragged it off the bed; it slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the floor. “Worthless sack of shit!” he snarled in anger, grinding his construction boot into the bloated, ravaged remains of Jake’s once-handsome face. The enraged alpha drove a few kicks into the torso, shattering a few ribs with the steel toe of his boot, before he’d calmed down enough to pick up the corpse and resume his work.

Spreading Jake’s smooth, muscular legs, he lowered the boy down on top of Andy, aiming the blond stud’s dick right for the Asian’s mouth. Once he had the motherfucker in position, he moved further down the tableau to force the straight boy’s face down onto his roomie’s cold but turgid shaft.

Joe retrieved his wifebeater and leather aviation jacket; he slipped the latter on but merely tucked the former through a belt loop. As he left the death chamber, he couldn’t help but to turn back for one last look at the two buff gym rats, both covered in and pumped full of manseed, locked in an eternal 69.

Joe took a couple of pics—and took Andy’s phone on the way out the door. Who knew what kinda worthless fags that fucker had hooked up with? The twisted sadist was certain he’d stumbled across a treasure trove of hot new meat.

As Carlos merged back onto the highway from the Winterbourne Road onramp, he became aware of a loud whistling sound accompanied by a jet of cold air. Glancing up, he realized that the strip of duct tape covering a tear in the convertible roof had peeled off.

His broad, tattooed chest was still glistening with sweat from his revenge fuck. Even though it wasn’t that cold outside, it was chilly enough to be uncomfortable against his bare skin. He abruptly made up his mind to head back to his motel room for a moment.

He wasn’t done for the night, fuck no. His adrenaline and testosterone were flowing; he was flush with cash—and he was hard again. A quick stop to pick up a couple of things, and he’d be back on the street.

Another unlucky fag was gonna get snuffed tonight. He was out there somewhere, right now, trolling the streets for dick.

Carlos put the pedal down. He was unaware of the ugly leer that twisted his hard, handsome face into a sadistic grimace; he just knew he was in a hurry. He was riding a high fueled by lust and endorphins, and he was gonna take advantage of it. The twenty minutes it took to get back across town to his motel seemed endless.

He was in the room for only about five minutes. After hiding the cash, it only took seconds to cross to the closet and pull a jacket off a hanger. He’d gotten it at a pawn shop earlier that day, after he’d bought his other clothes. It was a heavy leather biker jacket, a brand named “American Armor”. Slightly worn but in excellent shape, it had zippered sleeves, wide double-breasted lapels with snaps and a thick quilted lining; it was legitimately made for a biker.

And used by one, to judge by the smell. It was rank with sweat and smoke, but above all, the dense, heady scent of leather emanated strongly from it; one whiff would get the fag pigs running.

Laying the jacket across the back of a chair he dug in the closet for another purchase he’d made that day, this time in an army surplus store. Taking the box to the bed, he opened it to reveal a new pair of black nylon combat boots with thick rubber soles and—the real selling point for Carlos—a boot sheath in each one, for right- or left-handed action.

The brawny convict sat on the bed and slipped his engineer boots off, noticing a stain of Will’s blood on the right toe. He quickly wiped it off with a tissue before carefully setting the boots to the side. They were still his favorite, but the new pair would hold a knife better.

He laced them tightly up his calf, making sure they were snug. In the future, he’d use the zippers on the sides, but he needed to ensure the fit the first time. He also needed to test the fit of his knife; he wasn’t sure the sheath was designed to handle his foot-long blade.

Carlos paused on the way out the door, admiring his hard, lightly-furred body in the mirror. He was still all in black, from his combat utility boots to his tight jeans to the musky jacket hanging open and giving a tantalizing glimpse of his broad pecs and ripped abs. Even the shiny black do-rag was still knotted onto his shaved head.

The hard-bodied convict grinned. He looked hot, and he knew it. What’s more, he looked dangerous. The bulge in his jeans several inches below his knee caused by the handle of his knife wasn’t obvious enough to cause comment, but it might cause some interest. No true bottom pig faggot would be able to turn him down, and he was counting on it.

His earlier prey had been specifically targeted for money, but now Carlos was flush with cash. When he stalked out of hotel room, he wasn’t out to find a victim with cash.

A demon of sexual rage still burned in his chest. This time, he was just out to make a homo slut suffer.

Back in the stolen Mustang, back on the prowl. Carlos was looking for meat on the hoof and he knew where to find it—back at his old cruising grounds. Actually, he’d had several, all notorious pick-up spots in disreputable areas on the edge of the gay ghetto, several of which had been redeveloped while he was in the pen.

River Oak Park hadn’t, though. It was still dilapidated and dark; the trails that wound under the eponymous oaks had large areas of zero visibility where the pathway lights were out. At least it had the oaks; the “river”—more an embanked storm culvert than a natural waterway—was dry with the lack of recent rain.

It wasn’t a place most people chose to use for relaxation, so it became a place a few people chose to use for sex. Carlos had met the fag he’d whacked—the one he got sent away for—in this park; then they’d driven elsewhere.

He’d put out his headlights even before pulling into the parking lot; his car a dark shape gliding among several others. Drifting slowly into a space, he shut the vehicle off and glanced around.

Even in the dim light—only three of parking lot’s sixteen light poles were working—he could see several dudes. Some were hanging out in the parking lot itself; as he watched, he saw one boy, barely out of his teens, so fucked on booze or drugs—well, it must have been something to make him crawl in through an open window instead of just opening the car door. Whatever the case was, the car started up and left the park immediately.

Carlos wondered idly if the boy would be seen alive again. If it had been his car…

Other dudes seem to emerge out of and melt back into the darkness of the park. Carlos decided it was time to get out; he wasn’t gonna do anything in the car, at any rate.

As his broad, muscular body slipped into invisibility under the bare, interlocking branches of the oaks, he moved forward silently. The rubber soles of his combat boots had been designed for stealth; it emphasized the intensity of the hunt.

Carlos was horny, hard, and ready to kill again. Time to take down another worthless cocksucking pansy. His black eyes, wide and sparkling in the darkness, peered around eagerly. So many disgusting fags; who was gonna be the lucky cunt to taste his sperm and his steel?

Just under a mile away, the creek bed made a sharp turn south. The path, running along the north side of the creek, bent as well. The inside of the bend, on the south side of the path between it and the creek, was actually a flat peninsula screened by brush—very popular and currently in use by several couples.

North of the path the land was also covered with low-lying underbrush, but rising to the north as it did, it was less congenial to immediate public buttfucking; one had to hike some ways up a hill to reach a level but secluded clearing. Still, that side of the path wasn’t unpopulated.

Trace stood alone in the dark, in the bushes on the north of the path, angry and impatient. The teen shifted, his long, lean body stiff and uncomfortable. Jimmy shoulda been there almost an hour ago; Trace wasn’t gonna wait for him much longer. After all, he’d sneaked out of his house that night just so Jimmy could skullfuck him.

If Jimmy wasn’t gonna show, Trace was sure he could find other dudes to ream his throat just has hard as Jimmy did.

Trace was just six weeks past his eighteenth birthday; his wide blue eyes made him look even younger. His black hair was long and carefully negligent, with long bangs spread over his forehead, almost hanging into his eyes. In the back, it was longer and layered. Combined with his smooth cheeks and wide, easy-going grin, he had a look that ensured he got what he wanted in terms of sex.

Trace could have had any girl in the senior class, but what he wanted was Jimmy, tight end on the football team. It wasn’t that Trace was pining for a sports hero to take his virginity—he’d been with half the football team and a third of both the basketball team and the wrestling team before he got out of his junior year—but there was something about Jimmy…

Jimmy was straight. If he wasn’t, he was good at playing it—he’d only meet Trace in the park after dark, in a pre-arranged location so no one would know. And it was hard to believe that his contempt for homosexuals was role-play, given the way he slapped Trace around while ruthlessly breeding his mouth. One day, if he thought he could take the pain, he’d let Jimmy up his ass…

Trace had loved every fucking second of it. And tonight, Jimmy wasn’t here. Even worse, Trace could hear the sounds of sex all around him in the darkness. He couldn’t see anything, but his teenage body was responding to the outpouring of semen and testosterone around him.

It was maddening. It was an itch he couldn’t scratch—and it was centered deep in his balls. The lean, well-built youth was as randy as a cat in heat. He was done waiting for his top.

The lust- and hormone-fueled teen decided he couldn’t wait any more. He followed his hard dick out into the darkness to meet his fate.

He was certainly dressed to meet someone. Trace had a slim swimmer’s build—lean and firm, not scrawny—and he knew how to accentuate it. Tonight, his smooth chest was covered with a simple white cotton t-shirt at least one size too small, looking as if it had been painted onto his low, broad pecs and his flat belly.

Since the night was chilly, he wore a blue denim button-down shirt open over the t-shirt. His equally-revealing jogging jeans were less faded, but the way they clung to his tight ass and highlighted his package left nothing to the imagination. The jeans had elastic gathering the ankles, so they appeared to be bloused into Trace’s red canvas Converse hightops.

The young fag hadn’t specifically dressed like a slut—but he was a slut, and a good-looking one at that, and he felt no need to hide his light under a bushel. In fact, he wanted all the hot dudes to see just how much he was flaming. Not that he was particularly effeminate.

But he did love dick.

Stepping out onto the path, the horny teen followed his eager, throbbing cock into the darkness. The new moon, thin as a fingernail paring, shed little light and the occasional working light within the park itself didn’t do much to dispel the blackness. Trace could sense other men just off the path, but couldn’t see exactly what they were doing—or if they were interested.

He walked on, the white soles of his canvas hightops almost silent on the paved footpath. The ground to his left sloped down to the creek, while that on his right rose gently into a heavily wooded section of the greenbelt. He’d wandered just over half a mile when he realized that he hadn’t seen anyone for a while.

Shrugging, Trace decided that dudes looking for a hookup didn’t go this far into the park. He turned, deciding to try his luck in the parking lot, when he heard footsteps behind.

Instead of leaving, the young slut made the worst mistake of his life and paused to listen. The footfalls were faint and the path curved around a bend in the creek five yards ahead—he couldn’t see anyone.

And then suddenly, there he was. A tall, muscular stud, appearing out of the murk and looming over him. Thirty feet back was a light pole; the glow wasn’t bright, but it was good enough to see the hot dude who’d come out of nowhere.

Just a single glance at the teen he stumbled across told Carlos all he needed to know. After all, the little fuck wasn’t dressed to hide his assets; even in the dim lighting, he could see the punk’s thick junk through his tight jeans. It was the eyes, though—the way lust illuminated them. Cat-like, they almost glowed in the dark.

Trace gazed up in wonder at the muscled cholo looming over him. The well-built dude was all in black, practically camouflage in this part of the park, but the aroused teen could still make out the older man’s huge pecs. Even in the dim light, he could see the tattoos half-hidden under the leather jacket, the dark treasure trail undulating over the stud’s ripped abs as it disappeared beneath the waistband of the tight black denim.

Carlos had read the signs right. A single look at the strapping con had driven all thoughts of Jimmy out of the youth’s mind. This dude—this was a real man. Trace wanted this guy inside him. Deep.

Carlos could see the boy’s mouth open and silently mouth the word “wow” before his tongue darted quickly across his lips. He knew the little fag was thinking about gagging on Carlos’s fat hog; the kid’s worthless pig lust was radiating palpably from his tight, hormone-filled body.

Time to make his move, he decided. This was gonna be easy as shooting fish in a barrel.

Wide-eyed, the teen slut nodded; the gruff bass of the alpha’s hoarse voice seemed to vibrate along his spine and the root of his dick. “Up there,” he gasped, jerking his head to the right where the ground sloped up to more dense woods.

As they turned and silently made their way uphill, Trace found himself walking stiffly. His cock was so hard it hurt.

In a moment, they were picking their way through the trees. The thick carpet of dead leaves crackled under the soles of the kid’s Converse sneakers. Carlos’s military-style combat boots made much less noise.

Not that it mattered; they were too far back into the greenbelt to see the path. Five yards further on, a high chain link fence marked the edge of park land. Beyond, the tree line dwindled down to a swath of waste ground that bordered a landfill a mile away.

They were completely isolated, for all intents and purposes—even Carlos’s.

Trace’s hands fumbled hurriedly in his groin as he unzipped his fly to give some release to the aching six-inch cock trapped in his tight jeans. Carlos stood and watched him in silent contempt—stupid little homo couldn’t even control his disgusting urges.

Well, then—Carlos was gonna have to control them for him. Reaching down to his own groin, he hauled his huge tube of meat out, letting it dangle and drip in the night air.

The teen froze. He was mesmerized by the older dude’s tool. Fuck, Jimmy was hung, but this guy put Jimmy to shame. He wanted this cock inside him, fuck, he wanted it so bad…

He swiftly shucked off his button-down shirt, tossing it negligently onto the ground before pulling off his tight t-shirt and tossing it on top of the other. As he stepped toward Carlos, a thin sliver of faint moonlight illuminated his soft, flat belly and smooth chest, firm but not overly developed.

He approached the towering cholo stud, hesitantly but eagerly. His huge blue eyes, framed by long lashes that added an extra hint of vulnerability to his beautiful, youthful face, turned expectantly up to those of the erotic, mysterious alpha.

Like a good bottom pig, he was awaiting orders. He didn’t have long to wait.

Trace jerked, startled by the suddenness of the order, but he obeyed. Falling to his knees on the soft flooring of leaves, he opened his mouth wide and took the swollen, oozing head into his mouth, tasting the salty drops of precum trickling from the tip.

Carlos grunted as the teen slowly began deepthroating him. He felt the boy’s esophagus wrap tightly around his shaft as the kid buried his face in the alpha’s crotch, grinding his nose voluntarily into the stud’s pubic hair.

Trace made the mistake of trying to answer, gurgling on the shaft of flesh jammed down his throat. He was rewarded with a hard bitchslap across his face. “Shaddap!” Carlos growled. “Lick under my head, cunt. Run your tongue down my tool.”

The boy obeyed, wrapping his arms around the stud’s thick, muscled legs. As he chugged down the convict’s cock, he ran his hands up and down the taut denim, feeling Carlos’s hard, chiseled thighs and calves. His hands sank lower and lower, down towards the alpha’s combat boots…

…and encountered the hilt of the knife.

“What?” Trace muttered in surprise as he pulled his head up off Carlos’s throbbing hog. “What was that?” He peered up into the stranger’s face, obscured in the darkness.

He couldn’t see the look of cruel anger building in the brawny convict’s face, but he could hear the menace in the older man’s cold whisper. “It was gonna be a surprise for ya, boy. See, vato, you’re broken. I’m gonna fix ya. When I’m done with ya, you won’t be a faggot no more.”

Trace scrambled backward across the dead leaves, trying to get to his feet. “Wh-whatcha talkin’ ‘bout, man?” he quavered as the realization of impending danger began to percolate through his haze of lust and hormones.

“I’m talking about stickin’ you like the useless fag pig you are, punk. And the first thing I’m gonna stick you with is my cock. Shame ya didn’t give me more head, fairy, cause that’s all the lube yer gonna get.”

“What? No!” the youth squealed in fear. “Dude, I just give head—ain’t no one been up my ass!”

He had time for just one yelp of terror as Carlos sprang at him and slammed him sideways into a tree. Unluckily for the randy, adventurous teen, there was no one close enough to hear it. As he slumped unconscious to the ground, there was no hope of rescue. And Carlos knew it.

It only took a moment to bind the punk’s hands behind his back, using his own button-down denim shirt, twisted into a band. That done, Carlos flipped the boy onto his back, making sure the boy’s bound hands were bent up into an agonizing position under his own body weight.

Carlos was gonna teach the teen homo a thing or two about the pain he felt all faggots deserved, before “fixing’ him for good.

He started by parting the slut’s legs, leaving his jeans and hightops still on. Shrugging off his leather jacket, he laid it between the boy’s spread legs. As he did, the kid began to moan. The fluttering eyelashes in his gorgeous face signaled the slow, reluctant return of consciousness.

Carlos grunted in contempt. Little fuck hadn’t even hit the tree hard enough to break the skin. If that was all it took to lay him low, he realized, he was gonna hafta be careful or he’d fix the fag before he got to have any fun with him.

The strapping convict stood over the prone, helpless teen. Stripped to the waist, his powerful, tattooed torso gleamed in the faint sliver light in the small clearing. The teen swam back to a stunned awareness to see the ominous muscled silhouette looming over him—and he realized just how isolated and alone he was.

Trace began to blubber, jerking and yanking his arms helplessly against the tight binding. “P-please, man, no,” he sobbed, “I’ll do anything ya-ya want, dude, you can stick it up my ass, I w-won’t tell anyone—“ He trailed off into incoherent weeping.

Carlos just stood silently over the cowering, helpless boy. He didn’t say a word—he just held up the knife.

It was the same one he’d bought his first day out. The razor-sharp edge, all twelve inches of it, glinted wickedly in the faint light, as did the deep, evil serrations on the other side. The hilt ended in a handle with a handguard; Carlos could be assured of a secure, well-balanced grip whether he was slashing through organs or slicing through bone.

Tonight, he was planning to do both. But he needed to be careful. Little queer-ass pansy was fragile; he’d have to make sure he was only hitting non-vital areas to start. Good thing he’d learned all about inflicting nightmarish but non-fatal pain in prison.

But to start with, he wanted to fuck. His throbbing shaft needed care and a warm, moist sheath. This teen’s ass would work perfectly, but he knew it’d take time, effort, and some slight discomfort to pop the cherry hole.

He had a better idea.

“So you ain’t never had anyone up yer fuckhole, huh, you worthless slut? What kinda fag are ya, bitch? We’re gonna fix that right now. Don’t worry, cunt, my shaft ain’t gonna hurt ya. Well, not after I open ya up with this.”

Dropping to his knees on his jacket between the kid’s legs, Carlos leaned forward over the prone youth and held his knife up in front of the boy’s face.

Trace already knew that things were bad, that he was in more danger than he’d ever been in before, but he wasn’t able to absorb the implication of the knife. For one thing, at seventeen inches with a twelve-inch double-sided stainless steel blade, it was both larger and incomparably better designed to inflict pain and death than any blade he’d ever seen before. He simply couldn’t imagine it being used on him.

That changed the moment Carlos lifted the helpless youth’s legs and rammed the knife straight through the tight denim cradling his ass up into his rectum. The sadistic killer hadn’t just cut himself a fuckhole through the jeans, he forced the blade up into the unfortunate kid’s colon, slicing his sphincter suddenly and brutally.

Carlos paused for a moment, his biceps bulging as he forced the blade in deeper. Then he twisted it viciously deep in Trace’s guts before yanking it out again in a swift, cruel, slicing motion. Holding the bloody blade up for a moment, the evil killer admired the evidence of his own malignant sadism.

Beneath him, the teen writhed in agony, experiencing an entire spectrum of pain he’d never known existed. The cold, glassy slashes deep inside his tender fuckhole were too intense for him to scream; he could only gurgle and spray saliva as he tried desperately not to vomit in pain.

Carlos could see the amount of agony he’d inflicted on his victim. “Fuck yeah, cunt, looks like you’re finally ready to take my dick. ‘Course, even after slittin’ ya so it won’t hurt so bad, I’m still gonna tear ya some, but you like the pain, right faggot?”

As the bound, helpless teen writhed and mewled in pain, the brutal convict grabbed his club-like cock and plunged it into the kid’s mangled ass. The only lube was the boy’s warm blood as Carlos proved true to his word; the slashes he’d cut in the cunt’s sphincter weren’t enough—his thick, pulsing shaft tore Trace’s ass open even more painfully than the knife had.

The young virgin had reached a snapping point; the pain was too much. He shrieked in a shrill cry of agony, fear and despair.

It was music to Carlos’s ears. It was proof of the pain he was able to inflict on this worthless little faggot—but it could also draw the attention of others. He wasn’t done torturing this motherfucker, not by a long shot. He needed to keep the meat quiet.

He brought his blade into play again.

For a few months, he’d shared a cell with a straight serial killer. The guy had had lots of useful tips; Carlos had learned a lot from him. Like how to silence a fucktoy while still keeping ‘em alive. It caused unimaginable pain—but who cared?

He used it now. “Stupid pansy piece of shit, guess I gotta shut you up, your fuckin’ pig squeals are goddam annoying, motherfucker,” he snarled as he stuck the tip of his blade into Trace’s Adam’s apple.

Tightening his strong bicep, he drove the sharp steel tip down into the boy’s larynx. He had to apply some force when he felt the resistance of the cartilage, but he was able to slice through the voicebox and slit Trace’s vocal cords with ease. Once the knife was inserted far enough to do the appropriate damage, the cruel killer abruptly yanked it back out.

He’d rendered the helpless teen boy mute and wallowing in unimaginable agony, without endangering a single major blood vessel. Trace wasn’t dying; he only wished he was.

The pain was far beyond anything he’d ever imagined; in him mind he was screaming in horrific agony. The fact that all he could hear was a wet gurgling sound accompanied by a faint spray of blood scared him so bad he was barely coherent, but the grotesque blood-gargling sensation in his throat was nothing compare to the red-hot iron shaft being shoved up his ass…

At some point, Trace wished devoutly he’d stayed in the bushes and waited for Jimmy, but it was a fleeting thought in the whirlwind of slashing agony that was enveloping him. As he gasped frantically, he heard air whistling through the slash in his neck.

Sitting up on his knees with the boy’s feet on his shoulders and his arms wrapped around the helpless youth’s legs, Carlos held the knife in front of Trace’s pale face. He saw its icy glint reflected in the teen’s wide, shock-ringed eyes as he continued to taunt his terrified victim.

“Look at it, cunt,” he whispered sharply. “Lookit how sharp it is. You already felt it, bitch—didja like it? Sure the fuck hope so, ya cumsuckin’ fairy, cause you’re about to get a whole lot more of it.”

Bending down, he snarled in Trace’s weeping, gurgling face. “Quit whining, you stupid fuck. You’re out here cause you love ta get all kinda shafts stuck in ya, right? So here ya go, you fag piece of shit, I’m givin’ ya one that’s longer and harder than any you’ve ever had—or ever will. Now shut the fuck up and get ready to blow your load as I fuck ya to death with both my dick and my blade—two shafts at once, huh, ya cock pig?”

Holding the blade upright, he pointed the tip down and rammed it into Trace’s soft, flat belly, the knife penetrating the smooth skin with no resistance at all. It sliced through the punk’s tender guts, slashing through the intestines. Grunting forcefully, Carlos applied pressure with his arm, causing the tattoo on his bicep to bulge visibly as he forced the blade all the way through the teen’s slim, writhing body and pinning him to the earth underneath.

Trace’s struggles were involuntary; he was embedded in a fiery wall of pain like an insect in amber. He wasn’t rational—he only knew that he must not move, the slightest movement made the horrible burning slashing in his guts much much worse…

He didn’t have much luck remaining motionless. Carlos was ruthlessly raping his ass. As the twisted convict pumped his enormous tool up the teen’s slit, bleeding fuckhole, the force of his thrusts jerked the kid along the ground. Unfortunately for the young slut, the knife that was impaling him didn’t move; it was buried in the ground.

Every time Carlos shoved his cock deeply into Trace’s ass, the boy’s body was forced against the blade, widening the wound as he got fucked.

Mewling silently, the panicked boyslut jerked his head from side to side. The slit in his neck was small and barely visible; aside from a fine mist sprayed with each desperate breath, there was very little bleeding. He was trying frantically to scream, his beautiful face twisted in pain and terror, smeared with snot and tears.

But it was the hurt, bruised expression in his eyes that tripped a switch in Carlos. There was something about the vulnerability of the hot young teen’s face that sent his sadistic anger into overdrive.

With another deep grunt, he yanked the knife back up and out of the kid’s abdomen. Trace flailed in agony, his red chucks kicking the air just over his killer’s broad shoulders as the wheezing and gurgling increased in his damaged windpipe.

Trace heard the words but they meant nothing to him; his mind was a chemical stew of adrenaline and testosterone that was incapable of coherent thought—but it was able to process the sensation of bewildering and somehow painful erection.

It didn’t have long to process it, though. Carlos leveled the blade at the waist on the boy’s left side, then rammed it in at an upward angle. This time, stabbing diagonally into the unlucky teen’s torso, the brutal killer was able to shove the knife in up to the hilt, all twelve inches of sharpened steel buried deep inside the punk’s firm, quivering body.

The powerful cholo groaned in pleasure as massive organ trauma caused involuntary spasms in Trace’s colon and esophagus. As the viciously serrated blade sliced through the kid’s liver, spleen and stomach before puncturing his right lung, his rectum grasped Carlos’s thick, throbbing rod and began milking it in long, rolling convulsions. At the same time, the boy started vomiting; there was nothing in his stomach to come up, but the cruel, excruciating internal injuries he’d endured triggered an uncontrollable retching that only intensified his agony.

“Now yer gettin’ it, huh, puta?” the fag-hating alpha hissed at the dying teen. “Now yer gettin’ what all you fuckin’ queers deserve—a long hot shaft in your ass and a long cold shaft in your guts. Told ya I’d fix ya, you stupid homo—you ain’t gonna be no faggot by the time I’m done with ya; you’re gonna be fuckin’ meat!”

Gripping the long handle-like hilt of the military knife, Carlos twisted and ground it in the wound, slashing the boy’s tender innards into ribbons of bleeding flesh. Then he yanked the blade out in a sing, swift, brutal jerk. Grinning malevolently, he spit in the cunt’s vacant, stunned face before holding the dripping knife in front of it.

“Look at it, fag,” he whispered evilly. “See those strings of meat hanging off the serrations? Those are your guts, you worthless cock-gobblin’ pussyboy. And as much I as keep guttin’ ya like a fish, you’re still hard and drippin’ on my dick. Ain’t no way to help ya, motherfucker; yer a natural-born homo. So I guess you’re just garbage, huh? Ain’t no one gonna miss garbage.”

The convict’s muscular, inked body heaved with lust and rage, his broad back and tatted chest glistening with hot reeking mansweat. Trace’s smooth, flat swimmer’s chest was also covered with sweat, but his was a clammy, cold sweat wrung agonizingly from the teen’s lithe dying body. But the strong, strapping body of the enraged alpha hunched over him, driving his thick swollen cock up the convulsing teen’s ass, gave off so much heat he was steaming slightly in the chill night air.

The kid’s jeans rasped against Carlos’s pubic hair as the hulking alpha’s huge, hairy balls slapped at the slash he’d cut in the denim to access the pansy’s ass. The killer’s own tight jeans massaged his tight, taut ass as his muscled legs planted his combat boots firmly on the ground, guaranteeing plenty of traction for powerful thrusts. As the slashed, sliced teen thrashed in mindless agony, his Converse hightops quivered and flailed over Carlos’s broad, heaving shoulders.

Raising the knife up over his head, Carlos brought it back down, slamming it home in Trace’s broad, shallow pectoral on his left side, slipping it between two ribs just below his heart. It was a smooth, swift stab right into the chest, completely puncturing the left lung and—like the belly stab—completely impaling the tortured teen and pinning him to the ground.

The force of the blade through his lung rippled through his body, forcing his breath out with a long, ragged groan, whistling through his mangled vocal cords. Convulsions flowed down his once-virgin body, each one causing his cock to rise up and smack wetly against his killer’s furry belly and his rectum to stroke the cruel con’s engorged tool.

Now, Carlos realized, the clock was running. He’d taken care of the teen fag; the disgusting little pervert wasn’t gonna suck no more cocks—but Carlos still demanded his orgasm of rage. The punk bitch was meat but he still hadn’t drained his righteous killer’s cock.

The homo whore needed to suffer more. That was always the answer.

Carlos lay full-length on top of the dying young boy. Trace was barely alive; as his lungs slowly collapsed, all his attention was now focused on being able to breathe. He wasn’t able to comprehend that he was enduring the last few moments of his life—he only knew that he had to keep breathing. It was hard; there was a heavy weight on his chest, sliding around on a film of sweat and compressing his somehow stiff and oozing cock…but breathe, ignore the pain, ignore the warm soft flesh sliding on your dick as you writhe in agony, just breathe…

And the sadistic cholo chuckled. “Time to die, vato. Just fuckin’ die on my cock like ya deserve, you fucking pervert punk!”

With that, Carlos held the knife across Trace’s neck and began to slice through his throat. This time, he went below the larynx. The esophagus itself was, he knew from experience, a rubbery piece of tissue.

It took him a little while to saw through it.

The ultimate agony of fatal trauma managed to focus the boy’s attention, gruesomely ensuring his full awareness of the final nightmarish horror of his last few seconds alive in a sadistic quirk of physiological fate.

Trace gasped and gurgled louder than ever as his throat was slashed. He could feel each back-and-forth cut of the razor-sharp blade through the flesh and tendons of his neck. As unimaginable pain rocked his nervous system, his swollen, purple dick pulsed with each slice of the blade.

So did his eager fuckhole. “Yeaaahhhh…” grunted Carlos. “Fuck yeah, you fucking fag cunt, ya like gettin’ put down by a real man, huh? Then take, this, cocksucker!”

His powerful arm bulging, Carlos flayed the teen slut’s trachea open, listening with erotic glee as the young boy gagged and choked, gargling his own blood. “Fuckin’ die, fag!” the angry, lust-driven alpha cried as the slim, sweaty sack of meat under him milked a massive boiling wad of manspunk out of his almost painfully-swollen cock.

As the handsome teen hacked and drowned in his own blood, the screaming icy darkness that descended on him was held back by a single jolt of hot fluid flooding his mangled guts. Somehow, it seemed to be accompanied by another in his groin; a single, white-hot wire sounding his long, thick, agonizingly hard dick…

Coughing up one last gout of blood, the gay teen kicked his chucks on his killer’s shoulders as a solid ropy stream of semen spurted out of his cock and was immediately smeared with his blood against his belly and that of his vicious, dominant killer. The shuddering meat pumped a continual flow of DNA for more than twenty seconds but by that time, the teen’s blood pressure had dropped so low that brain death was occurring.

There wasn’t enough of Trace left to enjoy his death load.

Gasping, Carlos remained in place for a good two minutes as he caught his breath, his pulsing, oozing rod firmly sheathed in the corpse’s warm, moist, quivering colon. Every few seconds the hulking, sweating convict shuddered violently and spat another stream of pearly seed into the boy’s mangled fuckhole.

Finally feeling his pulse return to normal, the burly killer pulled his still-dripping shaft out of the dead teen’s ass and rose to his feet. Bending down, he retrieved his biker jacket and fished his pack of smokes out before slipping into the warm embrace of the leather. He lit one up, inhaling deeply as he let his huge purple hog swing free and drip-dry, the cum swiftly drying to a white glaze in the cool night air.

Clenching the cigarette in the side of his mouth, Carlos knelt over the kid’s body, still trembling and spasming randomly in death. “Toldja I’d fix ya, you cumsuckin’ homo,” the muscled killer chuckled vindictively. “Ain’t gonna suck no more cocks, huh? Unless the folks at the morgue or the undertaker’s wanna have some fun, but you still ain’t gonna be suckin’, huh, you worthless piece a’ shit pervert?”

Picking up his knife, Carlos looked around for a cloth. He spied Trace’s t-shirt, a pile of white fabric easily seen in the darkness. Grinning, he grabbed it and used it to wipe down his blade. He make sure to clean all the dangling strings of flesh trapped in the serrations, leaving the punk’s own t-shirt to be found smeared with the victim’s blood and meat.

Taking a final drag off his smoldering butt, he ground the glowing tobacco ember out in the very center of the dead youth’s forehead. Rising to his feet, Carlos glanced around carefully. There was no need; there was no one within sight or earshot.

And the few that Carlos encountered on his way back to the parking lot were too intent on their own activities to notice him. Silently, he slipped back into the Mustang and had pulled out of the lot and onto the street before turning on the headlights.

Three minutes later, he was back on the highway. He headed back to his motel room, finally feeling that he’d earned a rest for a job well done.

Not that his job was done. They all needed to be put down—all of them.

Carlos felt renewed; the well-being derived from a sense of purpose filled him with excitement. This was what he was here for—to put fags in their place. And their place was taking his cock, then taking a dirt nap.

But he needed money. Some homos had money—a lot of money. Carlos could have all the fun he wanted, but with a little judicious hunting, he could be living good.

As he slowed the ‘Stang for the exit for his motel, the twisted convict began to laugh out loud. He knew he was on the path of righteousness; being wrong couldn’t feel this good.

Fags needed to be taught a lesson. He was just the man to learn ‘em.

Trace’s desperate parents reported him missing the following morning but his slaughtered corpse wasn’t found for another four days. One of the local street whores met his dealer in the park; he got his fix for a discount if he gave the dude free sex. Looking for somewhere to do their transactions in private, they inadvertently stumbled across the mangled body.

Joe was relaxing, at least for the moment. He sat shirtless on the sofa, his tight jeans hanging open and unbuckled, his feet propped up on the coffee table. He was playing with a cell phone, occasionally swigging from a bottle of beer at his side.

He wasn’t familiar with this kinda phone; it was the one he’d taken off the bitch he’d choked. He’d held on to it for a couple of days while he kept his eye on the news. There’d been a brief mention of a body found in a motel room, then a flare of attention as the story of the photo surfaced. The pic of the boy’s corpse had been quickly scrubbed off the internet but public interest was really high.

So it would have to be a particularly stupid—or uncontrollably horny—faggot putting himself out online for sex now, at least in this part of town. Joe had been planning to write another ad himself, but he didn’t know how much could be traced back to him from the last cunt’s computer. And anyway, his curiosity had gotten the better of him. There were several hookup apps on the kid’s phone and he wanted to see what was out there.

He didn’t have to search long. The first app he looked at allowed anonymous postings; within the first two pages, he found what he wanted.

“NEED MY DADDY TONIGHT

My daddy is out and I’m home alone. 18, 122, 5’8”. Daddy’s a SWAT officer—can you fill his boots and my hole? Don’t have a car so I gotta host, lol.

–Daddy’s Boy”

Joe’s dick was so hard it hurt. Damn. He hoped no one had gotten to this boy yet. He wanted daddy? Joe could do that.

Deep in thought, he was unaware of the evil leer that twisted his handsome but somehow cold face. Oh yes, he could do that. He could be a very good daddy—or a bad one, depending on the definition.

“Boy—

You wanna get dicked down by daddy? Let’s roll. 32, 170, 6’4”. Got some fatigues I can wear.

–Powerdriver”

He never used the same screen name twice. While he waited for a response, he popped off the couch and went into the bedroom, rummaging in the closet briefly until he found his desert camo outfit. They were the real thing; he’d bought a complete army combat unit—ACU—from an army surplus store.

The sand-colored t-shirt was a couple of sizes too small; it wrapped so tightly around Joe’s muscled torso it looked wet. He tucked it into the camo-patterned pants before buttoning the form-fitting pants around his slim waist. He got the jacket on—it was too warm to close it up—and was just slipping on the socks when a chime from the dead kid’s phone alerted him to a message.

So the stupid little fucker was gonna respond, knowing that there was a killer out there? Joe grinned again as he accessed the app and read the note.

Still chuckling, Joe sent a message in the affirmative. There was a perverse thrill in fucking and snuffing the teen while wearing his father’s boots. Of course, he still needed something to wear on the way there. He slipped on a pair of short black leather engineer boots; he could quickly remove them when he got there.

He knew the address; a relative had lived around the corner at one point. It was an upper middle class neighborhood about twenty minutes away. He considered that it might be some kind of trap, but only briefly; he had too much common sense to think such an elaborate ruse likely.

Of course, he also had too much common sense to take chances; when he got there, he parked on a side street two blocks up, pulling up the last block with his lights off. As he approached the house, he walked on the grass verge on the far side of the sidewalk to avoid the inevitable thumping his thick-soled boots would cause.

The house was large, with a stone fascia stretching up two stories. It was also dark; there was no sign that anyone was there, but that was what he expected. The massive front door, unlocked as promised, was set with two large panes of glass, frosted and worked with lead.

Joe found himself on a square of tile surrounded by what seemed like a sea of neutral-colored carpet stretching off into the darkness. As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he became more aware or his surroundings—dining room on the right, huge useless formal living room to the left, hallway straight ahead probably leading to kitchen. The stairs started in the living room and curved up into blackness.

What a nice expensive house to desecrate with a rape and murder.

He started up the stairs, not caring how much noise he made now—in fact, he made sure the bitch knew he was coming. The kid needed to be ready.

The kid was ready. JC was so excited, he was afraid he was gonna cum before the dude got in the room. He was a horny little fucker and had already jacked off twice that day, but he was so full of hormones and semen that he was almost literally ready to spunk at the slightest touch.

His dad had been doing yard work. JC sat at his window overlooking the back yard, watching the muscled older man work his half-dressed body in the afternoon heat, cutting the grass and edging.

It’d never happen, of course, his father was ex-military and straighter than an arrow. He was out right now at some strip club with his police buddies; he’d likely bring back a whore to fuck sometime after the place closed—he usually did.

JC’s bedroom was next door; he always liked listening to daddy grunt and pump on the other side of the wall. Tonight, though, he had other ideas. Tonight, he was get as close to daddy as he could.

The guy he’d contacted online had the same build and stats as JC’s dad, except for the age. And he’d said he’d fuck him wearing military gear and daddy’s boots.

So it seemed only logical that he’d get fucked on daddy’s bed.

JC entered his father’s bedroom confidently, knowing he had at least a couple of hours before the titty bar closed. The room was done in a dark masculine blue, with a black wrought iron metal bed covered with a simple fleece blanket. JC swept it back, knowing that the linens underneath were high-quality; dad like to fuck his whore on 800-thread count percale—almost as smooth as satin.

The room was dark but there was enough reflected light bleeding through the open blinds from the streetlights outside to allow him to see. Evidence of daddy was everywhere; combined with the scent of his cologne, it made a heady mix that would have gotten him hard if he wasn’t already. Happened every time he entered the room.

His father’s black leather boots were on the floor in front of the dresser. The laces were still tightly tied; the zippers up the sides were undone. Daddy had put most of his tactical gear in the closet and locked up his gun, as usual, but there were some bits and pieces scattered about.

One of his many pairs of handcuffs was on the nightstand; daddy was probably gonna use ‘em on his whore later. A belt of webbed black nylon, with a hard plastic clasp, was slung over the headboard of open ironwork. Looking at them, JC felt his dick throb. Aside from his socks, he was nude; it jutted in front of him, long, erect and dripping on daddy’s thick pile carpet. The desire to be used like a slut swept over him; the horny teen decided he’d ask his hook-up to use the handcuffs.

He was in his own home, in his cop father’s bedroom. The thought that he was in any kind of danger never crossed his lust-filled mind.

Sweeping back the blanket, JC climbed onto the bed. He gathered up the pillows, propping them under his head so he could lie back at an inclined angle. Sighing with comfort, he stretched out on his back on the expensive sheets, reflecting that even the bed smelled like daddy. The idea tripped his raging hormones into overdrive—where was the guy?

There—in the silent house, he could hear the front door open, quickly followed by heavy footsteps across the foyer. JC eagerly tracked the footfalls up the stairs.

He was right outside the door. It was gonna happen. JC was gonna get fucked in daddy’s bed by a hard dude in military gear and daddy’s boots.

JC wasn’t a virgin, but he had never hooked up with an anonymous stranger before and he’d never had sex in his own home before—much less in daddy’s bed. The excitement was intense. He closed eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to slow his racing heart. If he didn’t calm down, he’d blow his wad before the guy was in the room…

Joe paused at the door at the top of the stairs. It was about halfway open, the ambient lighting giving a faint glow to the darkly-hued walls. He could make out a figure recumbent on the bed, moving slightly.

He stepped into the room and approached the bed. The teen was stretched out, his smooth, lithe body glistening slightly in the half-light, sweating in the warmth of the night. Joe reached down and switched on the bedside lamp.

The kid had evidently been in the dark for some time; he winced and shielded his eyes. “What’s that for?” he whined.

“I like to see who I’m fucking. C’mon, boy, lemme see your face.”

The kid blinked a couple of times, then rolled back onto his back. Under long, disheveled sandy blond hair, hazel eyes flashed up, now green and now brown, framed by silky black lashes. The young, eager face was shaded with a faint fuzz, noticeable on the upper lip.

His body was slim but not thin; the kid had some muscles. He had firm thighs and calves; his feet were bare except for black ped socks that ended below his ankles. His pecs gave a rise to his chest and his abdomen was smooth and flat. A slight trail of fur started on his lower belly, growing darker and thicker as it merged with his pubic hair. From that curly mass, the teen’s thick cock stood erect. Long and thick (although neither longer nor thicker than Joe’s), it rose stiffly like a pole, the tip glittering with moisture.

Joe grinned. Hot little motherfucker—he was gonna enjoy raping him.

He was gonna enjoy murdering him even more.

JC was even more pleased—damn, this dude looked almost exactly like daddy had in those old photos taken back when he was in the military. He even had a real ACU—JC knew what that was; he’d obsessed on his father’s various uniforms and tactical outfits. Holy fuck. Holy fucking shit, daddy was gonna fuck him…

He was almost incoherent in his lust. Joe’s grin became downright evil, but it didn’t matter, the horny piece of shit probably wouldn’t have noticed if he’d pulled out a weapon—speaking of which, he took a quick glance around the room.

The black combat boots in front of the dresser were clearly what the cunt wanted. Bracing himself against the wall with one hand, Joe kicked off his black engineer boots one at a time. He padded over to the dresser in his socks before snatching them up. He sat at the foot of the bed and slipped them on, zipping them up. Already tightly laced, they encased his feet snugly and firmly.

No matter how much thrusting he did, he’d have plenty of traction.

Quickly rising, Joe stood at the side of the bed, towering over JC. Looking down on the slut coldly and contemptuously, he slowly slipped out of his jacket, revealing his magnificent torso wrapped tightly in the khaki-brown t-shirt. Tucking his hands down below the trouser waist, he grabbed the bottom edge of the shirt and slowly, almost sinuously, peeled it up and over his head, giving JC a view of his bulging pectorals and furry washboard abs.

The teen faggot gasped, his heart skipping a beat. This was gonna be better than he ever imagined. “Th-the cuffs…” he stuttered, gesturing towards the gleaming metal item on the nightstand. “Y-ya wanna put ‘em on me? It’s ok…” As he wallowed in his pig-like lust, he was almost breathless.

Joe snatched up the handcuffs. As he leaned menacingly over the kid, JC reached up, fondling Joe’s chest, twining his fingers in the wiry fur before moving up to feel the bulging biceps, hard as steel.

Joe smirked openly. “What, ya wanna get raped by yer daddy? Is that what you’re lookin’ for, boy? C’mere, bitch, gimme those hands before I have to take ya down!”

JC felt the older man’s overwhelming strength—and his own powerlessness against it—as Joe grabbed his arms, roughly forcing them up over his head. Before he could react, cold steel was tightened painfully around his wrists, the cuffs looped through the open ironwork of the headboard. He was bound to the bed, unable to free himself on his own. These were law enforcement handcuffs of case-hardened steel. The only way out was with the key.

“Fuck me, daddy, c’mon!” JC moaned, lost in a tidalwave of hormone-fueled lust. “Stick your fuckin’ SWAT cop cock up my ass! Show your son how much ya want him, how much ya wanna plow his hole!”

But Joe didn’t move. JC looked up at his surrogate father’s face and felt the first flash of unease as he met the older dude’s ice-cold eyes and expressionless face. Daddy was supposed to fuck him long and hard, telling him how much he loved his boy.

This guy didn’t look like he loved his boy. His disdainful stare left JC uncertain what was happening.

Joe broke the tension of the moment by reaching into his pocket while simultaneously sitting on the edge of the bed next to JC. He’d fished out his pack of cigarettes; JC’s eye grew wide with concern as Joe proceeded to light one up.

“Dude!” he yelled, “You can’t do that! No one smokes in here; my dad’ll smell that sure as shit!”

Joe turned his head slowly. Cold and hard, he gazed down into JC’s concerned face. “So?”

“B-but you’re gonna get me in trouble! C’mon, man, don’t do this to me!”

“You have no idea what I’m gonna do to ya, boy. Get ya in trouble? Bitch, you’re already there!”

Joe’s smile was even colder and harder than his previous expressionless state. An icy thrill ran through JC’s body as the awareness of his vulnerable position slowly percolated through his thick, slow-moving mind.

The terrifying awareness only grew as Joe contemptuously flicked his ashes over both JC and the bed. “Please! Daddy’s gonna kill me when he finds out about this!” the teen begged.

JC didn’t react, largely because he was incapable of comprehending what he’d just been told—if he didn’t know better, it sounded like this hot daddy lookalike wanted to kill him. But that was nuts. It couldn’t be right.

“Dude, enough—lemme up! Goddammit, I’m gonna get so fuckin’ grounded when he gets home! Lemme up NOW or I’m gonna call the cops!”

Joe laughed. He bent his head back and laughed loudly and contemptuously. “Ya wanna call the cops, you little motherfucker? Wanna call in your daddy’s friends so they can tell him how his punk-ass queerboy son got scared after lettin’ a dude come over to fuck ‘im? Yeah? C’mon, you stupid cunt, it that what ya want?”

JC’s face went blank. The teen had managed to get by on his looks; his angelic, boyish face had charmed a lot of people. His mental abilities, consequently, were atrophied and nowhere near up to dealing with what was going on. The boy was simply not capable of understanding the situation.

Joe had expected this—they never really believed they could die, not the young, stupid ones. Even as they screamed in the agony of death, they didn’t get it until the very end.

Thank God. Getting them to that final realization of mortality, that moment when they gave up their last vital spurt of semen, was what made dealing with these useless cunts worthwhile.

Joe’s assessment of JC’s mental state was accurate; the kid’s heart was speeding in fear, but it was fear of what his father was gonna do when he got home. He was concerned to the point that he forgot about the sex—but not for long.

Taking another drag, Joe set the cigarette carefully on the edge of the nightstand, noting the way the teen’s worried eyes followed him. Standing over the prone youth, he maintained an icy eye contact as he slowly reached down and unfastened his fly. As soon as his thick hog fell out, the boy broke the contact to gape at the massive tube of meat. Joe chuckled at he picked his smoke back up.

As swiftly obsessed with the smoking as JC had been before, it slipped just as quickly out of his mind as Joe’s enormous cock dangled over him, clear precum dripping on the punk’s smooth flesh. He gasped, struggling in a wave of both fear and lust.

“Oh daddy…” he whispered. Joe stiffened, a cold, tight grin on his face. The cunt had surrendered. Not as if Joe would have given him a choice, the fucker was cuffed to the bed and wasn’t leaving it alive. But he liked knowing that the punk’s desire for him was greater than his fear.

Even though he’d already told the stupid piece of shit he was gonna get snuffed. Goddam. Motherfucker’s gotta want his daddy’s dick bad. Joe decided it was time to oblige.

Leaning forward, he ground his butt out on the smooth varnished surfaced, deliberately provoking a reaction. He liked his victims kicking a little when he penetrated them.

JC squealed indignantly, stunned at the desecration of his father’s bedroom. His attention was still on assessing the damage when Joe’s massive cock was thrust brutally up his ass. There was no warning, no lube, no slow accommodation—there was just an enormous shaft of meat impaling his tender rectum.

He screamed. At least he thought he did; a deafening shriek echoed in him mind. The fact that it never emerged from his mouth was due to the fist that Joe slammed into the kid’s face. The pain was almost unnoticed in the trauma he was already experiencing, the physical assault overwhelmed by the sexual.

Then a pause. Joe was fully inserted, his pubic hair grinding and scraping against JC’s smooth, peach-fuzz-covered asscheeks. The teen lay back, not resisting, gasping and hyperventilating. He was utterly unaware of the bruise darkening the left side of his face, or that his lower lip was split.

This was it. This was daddy sex.

It hurt. It hurt bad. JC was starting to panic; the agonizing sensation of a hard shaft thrust up his ass was so intense, he was unable to catch his breath. Now he could hear himself—he could hear the high-pitched whine he was emitting with his gasping.

The man over him was silent, his eyes cold slits that seemed to hide a glittering rage. JC could feel the hard muscled body pressing him down, see the matted fur on the alpha’s heaving chest. The older man’s musky scent filled the boy’s nostrils as he shuddered in pain, writhing on the smooth sheets.

He began thrusting his hips violently, knowing the boy hadn’t had time to get his tight sphincter accommodated to the huge tool spearing it. He felt his shaft, ribbed with veins, pumping deeply into the kid’s tender, quivering fuckhole as the little slut thrashed his legs, kicking desperately at Joe’s back.

JC’s eyes widened in agony. As he inhaled deeply, prior to letting out a massive shriek, Joe leaned down and grabbed the punk’s throat with one hand, drawing his other back in a fist.

“Lissen up, you cocksucking faggot,” he snarled, “You make one more sound and I’m gonna fuck you up bad. I’ll start by breaking your jaw and just kinda work my way around my face. Ya got me, motherfucker? Ya feelin’ what I’m sayin’? Just take the dick, bitch, like you’re supposed ta.”

Then he leaned down, glaring intently into the youth’s eyes, awaiting the erotic moment when fear overcame pain. It was the way the agonized, frantic light in the cunt’s eyes faded and died. They glazed over momentarily, only to be quickly filled with another light—dim at first, but fated to grow ever more intense until it went out permanently.

JC knew to the depths of his soul that the man fucking him, the man over him and in him, was deadly serious about what he’d said—not that he had any idea how deadly yet. Even so, he was unable to remain completely silent.

The teen boy’s smooth face, pleading and distraught, his large tear-rimmed hazel eyes framed by long dark lashes, would have melted a heart of lead.

Joe’s heart was stone. Stone doesn’t melt. He leaned down slowly, almost gently, before spitting in JC’s face.

“You don’t want daddy to hurt you? What the fuck you think daddy is here for? Shut the fuck up and take my cock, you stupid piece of shit!”

Before the fuckmeat could react, Joe started pumping vigorously, long swift strokes ramming his swollen purple head into as-yet unreached depths of the kid’s colon. And again, taking advantage of the pause as the punk inhaled to get enough air to scream, Joe quickly rabbit-punched the youth, snapping a cheekbone.

“Ya didn’t do what daddy said, you worthless cumsucking homo, so daddy’s gotta make ya. Now lessee—whadda we got to keep daddy’s useless punk quiet?” Joe glanced around and noticed the webbed belt draped over the headboard, easily within reach. Grinning broadly and evilly, he bent down over the helpless boy. “Ya like daddy’s shit, huh? Lessee how much ya like daddy’s belt around your throat, you useless faggot slut!”

Joe was experienced. Under different circumstances, JC might have appreciated the swift smoothness with which Joe, in a single movement, wrapped the belt around both of his broad, strong hands and around the trapped punk’s neck simultaneously.

JC was drowning in a tidal wave of pain, too caught up in trauma to pick up much of what the alpha stud was saying. It felt like a hand grenade had been shoved up his ass and detonated. The rugged material of the guy’s camo pants was scraping and burning the smooth flesh on the inside of his firm thighs; he wasn’t helping matters himself as he frantically flailed his legs. The dude was too big, too strong, for JC to get his legs up under the older man’s ripped torso and push him off.

Bending down over the agonized, terrified teen, Joe spit in his face before whispering “What’s that thing fathers always tell their sons when they’re pissed—‘Boy, I brought ya into this world and I can take ya out’? Well, tonight, let’s pretend I’m step-dad—not there for the first part, but there for the second. I’ll take ya outta this world. You can ride daddy’s dick all the way into your grave.”

He pulled the webbed belt tight around the kid’s neck. There was no hesitation, no chance to comprehend the concept of death. In the depths of an excruciating rape, JC suddenly found himself getting strangled.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. It was worse than he could have ever imagined. There was no air. He didn’t understand what was happening—he’d wanted to get fucked by daddy but daddy was a straight faggot-hating SWAT cop. He’d put himself out for something as close as possible—and he was, this dude looked so much like daddy and was wearing his boots and military gear—it was perfect. How did it go wrong?

Joe could see the helpless bewilderment in the punk’s face. The struggles of the trapped youth were erotic as fuck; he fought for air, he fought to free himself, he fought to stop the violent rape—and it was all utterly useless. His smooth, firm legs thrashed against his assailant’s sweaty flanks, the sound of skin slapping together loud in the half-dark bedroom—louder even than the grunting and choking from JC’s closed-off windpipe.

“You’re dying, you fuckin’ cocksucker—how’s that feel, huh? Ya likin’ daddy’s hard tool now that he’s showin’ ya what he does to worthless faggot boys?” Joe jeered down into the kid’s twisted, swelling face.

JC was enveloped in a wall of fiery pain; the nightmarish agony of his impaled asshole now joined with the crushing pain in his throat and the mounting pressure in his head and chest. His ears rang and pounded as he frantically jerked his arms, making the handcuffs clatter loudly against the headboard. He wrapped his slim but strong legs around Joe’s abdomen, his feet, still in his low black socks, drumming desperately against the alpha’s slick pumping back, able to feel every single thrust between his legs as well as deep in his guts.

Joe loomed over the dying teen, his iron-hard arms jammed straight down into the bed with the black nylon belt wrapped tightly around his hands, forcing the little fucker’s neck so deep into the pillow that he head bent slightly forward, aiming his face directly at Joe’s

Joe watched intently as he grunted and pumped his shaft into the punk’s traumatized colon. The boy’s beautiful hazel eyes were no longer beautiful, or even hazel. As they began bulging excruciatingly from their orbits, blood vessels both within and around the eyes began rupturing, stippling the kid’s face with petechial hemorrhages.

JC thrashed, blindly, violently, doing his damnedest to straight-arm death. He was young and strong, and even though he was overpowered and out-matched, he fought for his life with the desperate strength of panic. Despite the black roses blooming in his mind as parts of his brain began to die, he still believed that he could get out of this situation alive.

Joe was well aware of this; most of these stupid little cocksuckers had no concept of their own mortality. Well, at least not until it was placed in context for them, ignorant pieces of shit…

In the depths of JC’s mind, there was a tiny part of his personality left alive in the eye of the electrochemical storm caused by his failing, short-circuiting brain. It still felt pain, and it could still feel and acknowledge humiliation. He was sliding into an icy pit of terror, desperately trying to claw his way with the last of his strength, anything to avoid that, oh please, oh fuck, don’t let daddy find me like this don’t let him find me fucked and strangled in his bed—

Snarling and gritting his teeth, Joe pulled his arms tight, his biceps bulging, sweat and pheromones forced out of his muscular body by the effort of the snuff. His hips were thrusting so swiftly, it felt almost like an automatic reflex, not controlled by conscious thought. As the teen died, his sphincter contracted spontaneously, cinching up on Joe’s thick purple rod, making it even more sensitive to the velvet-like interior of JC’s shredded rectum.

As the punk’s head began shuddering, the older stud realized that the youth was entering the final stretch; brain death was starting to set in. He could feel his spunk boiling up, his huge balls contracting as his scrotum prepared a geyser of semen.

It was time.

One last brutal jerk of his arms and he was rewarded with the dry cracking sound of shattered cartilage as the boy’s esophagus collapsed. His body responded by immediately convulsing in violent death throes; Joe could only hang on to the bucking bronco of dying flesh, letting its quivering colon grasp and stroke his engorged cock.

Suddenly the teen’s slim, lithe body jerked violently; as his feet kicked convulsively, one black ankle sock was yanked off; it was later found in the corner of the room by CSI.

The boymeat gripped his killer instinctively and uncontrollably; his thick cock started to spurt a steady stream of cum. The dying cunt didn’t just shoot a wad; a fountain of sperm erupted from his rigid shaft as if his death load had to pump out all the genetic material he’d ever produce.

As hot spunk splashed over Joe’s chiseled chest, he lost his control and, pulling the corpse onto his dick by the belt around its neck, flooded the teen’s intestines with his boiling seed. In the back of his mind, he was aware that he was yelling, cursing the useless little faggot, the cumsucking teenager, worthless piece of shit—

He gasped abruptly, coming back to himself, still violating the youth’s corpse but slowing down the frequency of his thrusts as he coated the cunt’s guts with sperm. The kid was still convulsing, his mindless body jerking and shuddering on the semen-soaked sheets, his quivering sphincter still stroking Joe’s engorged, sensitive rod.

Joe grunted and trembled, holding himself still, letting the teen slut’s final death spasms milk the last drops of cum from his dick while a few pearly beads oozed from JC’s cock. The muscles at the root of the boy’s tool clenched in cadaveric spasm, leaving his purple shaft swollen with blood and still hard even in death.

Gripping the youth’s jerking legs tightly so they wouldn’t slip out of his hands, the muscled stud slowly withdrew from the corpse’s torn and ripped asshole. Joe stood up and retrieved his shirt and jacket from the floor where he’d tossed them. He fished his smokes out of the breast pocket on the jacket and lit one up while he relaxed a bit, surveying his work.

It was a striking composition, a very stark tableau. JC was lying on his back, still shuddering. His feet, one still in a black sock, jerked across the smooth dark sheets. A faint rattling sound came from the headboard where the convulsive clenching of the corpse’s fists were shaking the handcuffs against the iron.

The teen’s face was horrifying, head thrown back, eyes and tongue protruding, his skin black and swollen with his distended lips highlighted by the fountain of foam that had seeped from his blocked-off mouth and even now was drying into a scaly crust on his grotesquely dark cheeks.

The condition of the body told the story. The legs spread, blood and cum dripping from the boy’s ass, were clear indications of the brutal rape, the black swollen face and the torn flesh at the wrists were evidence of the punk’s helpless and fear in the face of overwhelming violence. The point was underscored by the black webbed belt, still deeply sunk into the corpse’s throat.

As for the spunk glazing the kid’s thighs and crotch and pooled so deeply in the hollows of his flat smooth belly that it hadn’t yet started to thicken, well, Daddy could make up his own mind about that.

Of course, Joe realized, he could always help daddy make up his mind about that. Quickly slipping out of the combat boots, Joe finished putting his own gear back on, occasionally using JC’s dark, congested face as an ashtray.

He finished dressing at about the same time as he finished his cigarette, grinding out the glowing coal on JC’s forehead, leaving a sizzling black scorch mark. Bending down, he retrieved the combat boots he’d worn when fucking the cunt. He slammed them down onto the boy’s belly, splattering the coagulating semen. Putting his weight into it, he ground them down into the boy’s abdomen, leaving deep treadmarks in the skin.

Joe stood back and reviewed the scene. Something was missing. What—ah!

He darted forward and snatched one of the boots, leaving the other on its side on JC’s belly.

Slipping his hand down inside the still-warm boot, Joe smashed his fist into the teen’s staring face, driving the thick sole of the combat boot—still covered in the kid’s own cum—into the corpse’s cheeks and nose, slamming the heel into the swollen mouth and dark forehead.

When he was done, he left the boot upright on the boy’s smashed face.

Picking up the youth’s cell phone off the nightstand, he took a couple of minutes to snap some striking photos of the corpse, both distance and close up. Despite the dimness, the pics were crystal-clear; the phone had a good flash.

Slipping the phone into his pocket, Joe took a last look around to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. A tiny glint of metal at the corner of the nightstand caught his eye.

Joe grinned evilly as he snatched it up and slipped it into his pocket with the phone. He chuckled as he left the room; when he got to the privacy of his own car, he laughed out loud.

Well, who knows—maybe daddy wanted his boy’s hole. Maybe when daddy got home, he’d fuck his son’s corpse before calling the cops—or maybe he’d be too afraid of contaminating the crime scene. Either way, daddy would have plenty of time to decide, cause it was gonna take a long time to get the little motherfucker off the bed. Those case-hardened steel cuffs were hell to cut through and the little piece of metal sitting in his pocket was the key…

He figured forty-eight hours should do it. By then, the kid would be outta daddy’s life. And daddy would be missing him. That was when Joe would start texting him the pics; that way, daddy would have something to jack off to.

Grinning broadly, Joe started his car. He certainly hoped daddy appreciated his thoughtfulness. But just in case, when he pulled away from the curb, he drove several blocks before turning on his lights.